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KENELM CHILLINGLY 


HIS 


ADVENTURES AND OPINIONS 


BY 

LORD LYTTON 

(SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART.) 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Peace, 








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KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


BOOK FIRST. 

CHAPTER I. 

Sir Peter Chillingly, of Exmundham, Baronet, F.R.S. 
and F.A.S., was the representative of an ancient family, and 
a landed proprietor of some importance. He had married 
young, not from any ardent inclination for the connubial 
state, but in compliance with the request of his parents. 
They took the pains to select his bride; and if they might 
have chosen better they might have chosen worse, which 
is more than can be said for many men wro ciioose wives 
for themselves. Miss Caroline Brotherton was in all re¬ 
spects a suitable connection. She had a pretty fortune, 
which was of much use in buying a couple of farms, long 
desiderated by the Chillinglys as necessary for the round¬ 
ing of their property into a ring-fence. She was highly 
'connected, and brought into the county that experience 
of fashionable life acquired by a young lady who has 
attended a course of balls for three seasons, and gone out 
in matrimonial honors,with credit to herself and her chaperon. 
She was handsome enough to satisfy a husband’s pride, but 
not so handsome as to keep perpetually on the qui vive a 
husband’s jealousy. She was considered highly accom¬ 
plished ; that is, she played upon the pianoforte so that any 
musician would say she “was very well taughtbut no 
musician would go out of his way to hear her a second time. 
She painted in water-colors—well enough to amuse herself. 
She knew French and Italian with an elegance so lady-like, 
that, without having read more than selected extracts from 
authors in those languages, she spoke tbeni both with an 



4 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


accent more correct than we have any reason to attribute 
to Rousseau or Ariosto. What else a young lady may 
acquire in order to be styled highly accomplished I do not 
pretend to know, but I am sure that the young lady in 
question fulfilled that requirement in the opinion of the 
best masters. It was not only an eligible match for Sir 
Peter Chillingly,—it was a brilliant match. It was also a 
very unexceptionable match for Miss Caroline Brotherton. 
This excellent couple got on together as most excellent 
couples do. A short time after marriage. Sir Peter, by the 
death of his parents—who, having married their heir, had 
nothing left in life worth the trouble of living for^—succeeded 
to the hereditary estates ; he lived for nine months of the 
year at Exmundham, going to town for the other three 
months. Lady Chillingly and himself were both very glad 
to go to town, being bored at Exmundham ; and very glad 
to go back to Exmundham, being bored in town. With one 
exception it was an exceedingly happy marriage, as mar¬ 
riages go. Lady Chillingly had her way in small things; 
Sir Peter his way in great. Small things happen every day, 
great things once in three years. Once in three years Lady 
Chillingly gave way to Sir Peter ; households so managed 
go on regularly. The exception to their connubial happi 
ness was, after all, but of a negative description. Their 
affection was such that they sighed for a pledge of it; four¬ 
teen years had he and Lady Chillingly remained unvisited 
by the little stranger. 

Now, in default of male issue. Sir Peter’s estates passed 
to a distant cousin as heir-at-law ; and during the last four 
years this heir-at-law had evinced his belief that, practically 
speaking, he was already heir-apparent ; and (though Sir 
Peter was a much younger man than himself, and as healthy 
as any man well can be) had made his expectations of a 
speedy succession unpleasantly conspicuous. He had re¬ 
fused his consent to a small exchange of lands with a neigh¬ 
boring squire, by which Sir Peter would have obtained 
some good arable land for an outlying unprofitable wood 
that produced nothing but fagots and rabbits, with the blunt 
declaration that he, the heir-at-law, was fond of rabbit¬ 
shooting, and that the wood would be convenient to him 
next season if he came into the property by that time, 
which he very possibly might. He disputed Sir Peter’s 
right to make his customary fall of timber, and had even 
threatened him with a bill in Chancery on that subject 


iCkNELM cniLLWGLY, 


s 


In short, this heir-at-law was exactly one of those persons 
to spite whom a landed proprietor would, if single, marry 
at the age of eighty in the hope of a family. 

Nor was it only on account of his very natural wish to 
frustrate the expectations of this unamiable relation that 
Sir Peter Chillingly lamented the absence of the little 
stranger. Although belonging to that class of country 
gentlemen to whom certain political reasoners deny the in¬ 
telligence vouchsafed to other members of the community, 
Sir Peter was not w’ithout a considerable degree of book¬ 
learning, and a great taste for speculative philosophy. 
He sighed for a legitimate inheritor to the stores of his 
erudition, and, being a very benevolent man, for a more 
active and useful dispenser of those benefits to the human 
race which philosophers confer by striking hard against 
each other ; just as, how full soever of sparks a flint may be, 
they might lurk concealed in the flint till doomsday, if the 
flint were not hit by the steel. Sir Peter, in short, longed 
for a son amply endowed with the combative quality, in 
which he himself was deficient, but which is the first essen¬ 
tial to all seekers after renown, and especially to benevolent 
philosophers. 

Under these circumstances one may well conceive the 
joy that filled the household of Exmundham and extended 
to all the tenantry on that venerable estate, by whom the 
present possessor was much beloved, and the prospect of 
an heir-at-law with a special eye to the preservation of rab¬ 
bits much detested, when the medical attendant of the 
Chillinglys declared that “her ladyship was in an interest¬ 
ing way ; ” and to what height that joy culminated when, in 
due course of time, a male baby was safely enthroned in 
his cradle. To that cradle Sir Peter was summoned. He 
entered the room with a lively bound and a radiant counte¬ 
nance : he quitted it with a musing step and an overclouded 
brow. 

Yet the baby was no monster. It did not come into the 
world with two heads, as some babies are said to have done ; 
it'was formed as babies are in general—was on the whole a 
thriving baby, a fine baby. Nevertheless, its aspect awed 
the father as already it had awed the nurse. The creature 
looked so unutterably solemn. It fixed its eyes upon Sir 
Peter with a melancholy reproachful stare ; its lips were 
compressed and drawn downward, as if discontentedly 
meditating its future destinies. The nurse declared in a 


KkNELM CHlLUmLY, 


e 

frightened whisper that it had uttered no cry on facing the 
ight. It had taken possession of its cradle in all the dignity 
of silent sorrow. A more saddened and a more thoughtful 
countenance a human being could not exhibit if he were 
leaving the world instead of entering it. 

“ Hem ! ” said Sir Peter to himself on regaining the soli¬ 
tude of his library ; “a philosopher who contributes a new 
inhabitant to this vale of tears takes upon himself very 
anxious responsibilities-” 

At that moment the joy-bells rang out from the neigh¬ 
boring church-tower, the summer sun shone into the win¬ 
dows, the bees hummed among the flowers on the lawn ; 
Sir Peter roused himself and looked forth. “ After all,” 
said he, cheerily, “ the vale of tears is not without a smile.” 


CHAPTER II. 

A FAMILY council was held at Exmundham Hall to de¬ 
liberate on the name by which this remarkable infant 
should be admitted into the Christian community. The 
junior branched of that ancient house consisted, first, of the 
obnoxious heir-at-law—a Scotch branch—named Chillingly 
Gordon. He was the widowed father of one son, now of the 
age of three, and happily unconscious of the injury inflicted 
on his future prospects by the advent of the new-born ; 
which could not be truthfully said of his Caledonian father. 
Mr. Chillingly Gordon was one of those men who get on in 
the world without our being able to discover why. His 
parents died in his infancy, and left him nothing; but the 
family interest procured him an admission into the Charter 
House School, at which illustrious academy he obtained no 
remarkable distinction. Nevertheless, as soon as he left it 
the state took him under its special care, and appointed 
him to a clerkship in a public office. From that moment 
he continued to get on in the world, and was now a com¬ 
missioner of customs, with a salary of ^2^1500 a year. As 
soon as he had been thus enabled to maintain a wife, he 
selected a wife who assisted to maintain himself. She was 
an Irish peer’s widow, with a jointure of ^2000 a year. 

A few months after his marriage. Chillingly Gordon 



KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


effected insurances on his wife’s life, so as to secure himself 
an annuity of ;^iooo a year in case of her decease. As she 
appeared to be a fine healthy woman, some years younger 
than her husband, the deduction from his income effected 
by the annual payments for the insurance seemed an over¬ 
sacrifice of present enjoyment to future contingencies. The 
result bore witness to his reputation for sagacity, as the ladv 
died in the second year of their wedding, a few months after 
the birth of her only child, and of a heart-disease which had 
been latent to the doctors, but which, no doubt, Gordon had 
affectionately discovered before he had insured a life too valu¬ 
able not to need some compensation for its loss. He was 
now, then, in the possession of ;^25oo a year, and was there¬ 
fore very well off, in the pecuniary sense of the phrase. He 
had, moreover, acquired a reputation which gave him a social 
rank beyond that accorded to him by a discerning state. He 
was considered a man of solid judgment, and his opinion 
upon all matters, private and public, carried weight. The 
opinion itself, critically examined, was not worth much, but 
the way he announced it was imposing. Mr. Fox said that 
“No one ever was so wise as Lord Thurlow looked.” Lord 
Thurlow could not have looked wiser than Mr. Chillingly 
Gordon. He had a square jaw and large red bushy eye¬ 
brows, which he lowered dowm with great effect when he 
delivered judgment. He had another advantage for acquir- 
ing grave reputation. He was a very unpleasant man. He 
could be rude if you contradicted him ; and as few persons 
wish to provoke rudeness, so he was seldom contradicted. 

Mr. Chillingly Mivers, another cadet of the house, was 
also distinguished, but in a different way. He was a bache¬ 
lor, now about the age of thirty-five. He was eminent for a 
supreme well-bred contempt for everybody and everything. 
He was the originator and chief proprietor of a public jour¬ 
nal called “The Londoner,” which had lately been setup on 
that principle of contempt, and, we need not say, was ex¬ 
ceedingly popular with those leading members of the com¬ 
munity who admire nobody and believe in nothing. Mr. 
Chillingly Mivers was regarded by himself and by others as 
a man who might have achieved the highest success in any 
branch of literature, if he had deigned to exhibit his talents 
therein. But he did not so deign, and therefore he had full 
right to imply that, if he had written an epic, a drama, a 
novel, a history, a metaphysical treatise, Milton, Shake* 
speare, Cervantes, Hume, Berkeley would have been no 


JCENELM CHILLINGLY, 


% 

where. He held greatly to the dignity of the anonymous ;\- 
and even in the journal which he originated, nobody could 
ever ascertain what he wrote. But, at all events, Mr. Chill¬ 
ingly Mivers was what Mr. Chillingly Gordon was not— 
viz., a very clever man, and by no means an unpleasant 
one in general society. 

The Rev. John Stalworth Chillingly was a decided adhe¬ 
rent to the creed of what is called “ muscular Christianity,” 
and a very fine specimen of it too. A tall stout man with 
broad shoulders, and that division of low^er limb which inter¬ 
venes between the knee and the ankle powerfully developed. 
He would have knocked down a deist as soon as looked at 
him. It is told by the Sieur de Joinville, in his Memoir of 
Louis, the sainted king, that an assembly of divines and 
theologians convened the Jews of an oriental city for the 
purpose of arguing with them on the truths of Christianity, 
and a certain knight, who was at that time crippled, and 
supporting himself on crutches, asked and obtained permis¬ 
sion to be present at the debate. The Jews flocked to the 
summons, when a prelate, selecting a learned rabbi, mildly 
put to him the leading question whether he owned the di¬ 
vine conception of our Lord. “ Certainly not,” replied the 
rabbi ; whereon the pious knight, shocked by such blas¬ 
phemy, uplifted his crutch and felled the rabbi, and then 
flung himself among the other misbelievers, whom he soon 
dispersed in ignominious flight and in a very belabored con¬ 
dition. The conduct of the knight was reported to the sain¬ 
ted king, with a request that it should be properly repri¬ 
manded ; but the sainted king delivered himself of this wise 
judgment: 

“ If a pious knight is a very learned clerk, and can meet 
in fair argument the doctrines of the misbeliever, by all 
means let him argue fairly ; but if a pious knight is not a 
learned clerk, and the argument goes against him, then let 
the pious knight cut the discussion short by the edge of his 
good sword.” 

The Rev. John Stalworth Chillingly was of the same 
opinion as St. Louis ; otherwise, he was a mild and amiable 
man. He encouraged cricket and other manly sports among 
his parishioners. He was a skilful and bold rider, but he 
did not hunt; a convivial man—and took his bottle freely. 
But his tastes in literature were of a refined and peaceful 
character, contrasting therein the tendencies one might have 
expected from his muscular development of Christianity. 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


9 


He was a great reader of poetry, but he disliked Scott and 
Byron, whom he considered flashy and noisy : he maintained 
that Pope was only a versifier, and that the greatest poet 
in the language was Wordsworth ; he did not care much for 
the ancient classics ; he refused all merit to the French 
poets ; he knew nothing of the Italian, but he dabbled in 
German, and was inclined to bore one about the Hermann 
and Dorothea of Goethe. He was married to a homely little 
wife, who revered him in silence, and thought there would 
be no schism in the Church if he were in his right place as 
Archbishop of Canterbury: in this opinion he entirely 
agreed with his wife. 

Besides these three male specimens of the Chillingly 
race, the fairer sex was represented, in the absence of her 
ladyship, who still kept her room, by three female Chillinglys 
—sisters of Sir Peter—and all three spinsters. Perhaps one 
reason why they had remained single was, that externally 
they were so like each other that a suitor must have 
been puzzled which to choose, and may have been afraid 
that if he did choose one, he should be caught next day 
kissing another one in mistake. They were all tall, all thin, 
with long throats—and beneath the throats a fine develop¬ 
ment of bone. They had all pale hair, pale eyelids, pale 
eyes, and pale complexions. They all dressed exactly alike, 
and their favorite color was a vivid green : they were so 
dressed on this occasion. 

As there was such similitude in their persons, so, to an 
ordinary observer, they were exactly the same in character 
and mind. Very well behaved, with proper notions of 
female decorum—very distant and reserved in manner to 
strangers—very affectionate to each other and their relations 
or favorites—very good to the poor, whom they looked 
upon as a different order of creation, and treated with that 
sort of benevolence which humane people bestow upon 
dumb animals. Their minds had been nourished on the 
same books—what one read the others had read. The books 
\yere mainly divided into two classes—novels, and what they 
called “good books.” They had a habit of taking a speci¬ 
men. of each alternately—one day a novel, then a good book, 
then a novel again, and so on. Thus if the imagination was 
overwarmed on Monday, on Tuesday it was cooled down to 
a proper temperature ; and if frost-bitten on Tuesday, it 
took a tepid bath on Wednesday. The novels they chose 
were indeed rarely of a nature to raise the intellectual ther- 


10 


KEMELM chillingly. 


mometer into blood heat : the heroes and heroines werd 
models of correct conduct. Mr. James’s novels were then 
in vogue, and they united in saying that those “ were novels 
a father might allow his daughters to read.” But though 
an ordinary observer might have failed to recognize any 
distinction between these three ladies, and, finding them 
habitually dressed in green, would have said they were as 
much alike as one pea is to another, they had their idiosyn¬ 
cratic dilferences, when duly examined. Miss Margaret, the 
eldest, was the commanding one of the three ; it was she 
who regulated their household (they all lived together), kept 
the joint purse, and decided every doubtful point that arose, 
—whether they should or should not ask Mrs. So-and-so to 
tea—whether Mary should or should not be discharged— 
whether or not they should go to Broadstairs or to Sandgate 
for the month of October. In fact, Miss Margaret was the 
WILL of the body corporate. 

Miss Sibyl was of milder nature and more melancholic 
temperament ; she had a poetic turn of mind, and occasion¬ 
ally wrote verses. Some of these had been printed on satin 
paper, and sold for objects of beneficence at charity bazaars. 
The county newspapers said that the verses “were charac¬ 
terized by all the elegance of a cultured and feminine mind.” 
The other two sisters agreed that Sibyl was the genius of the 
household, but, like all geniuses, not‘sufficiently practical 
for the world. Miss Sarah Chillingly, the youngest of the 
three, and now just in her forty-fourth year, was looked 
upon by the others as “ a dear thing, inclined to be naughty, 
but such a darling that nobody could have the heart to 
scold her.” Miss Margaret said “she was a giddy creature.” 
Miss Sibyl wrote a poem on her, entitled— 

“ Warning to a young Lady against the Pleasures of the 
World.” 

They all called her Sally ; the other two sisters had no di¬ 
minutive synonyms. Sally is a name indicative of fastness. 
But this Sally would not have been thought fast in another 
household, and she was now little likely to sally out of the 
one she belonged to. These sisters, who were all many years 
older than Sir Peter, lived in a handsome old-fashioned red¬ 
brick house, with a large garden at the back, in the princi¬ 
pal street of the capital of their native county. They had 
each ^10,000 for portion ; and if he could have married all 
three, the heir-at-law would have married them, and settled 


KEr^ELM CmLLWGLY. 


It 


the aggregate ^30,000 on himself. But we have not yet 
eome to recognize Mormonism as legal, though, if our 
social progress continues to slide in the same grooves as at 
present, heaven only knows what triumphs over the preju¬ 
dice of our ancestors may not be achieved by the wisdom of 
our descendants ! 

<4 


CHAPTER III. 

Sir Peter stood on his hearthstone, surveyed the guests 
seated in semicircle, and said : “ Friends,—in Parliament, 
before anything affecting the fate of a Bill is discussed, it is, 
I believe, necessary to introduce the Bill.” He paused a 
moment, rang the bell, and said to the servant who entered, 
“ Tell nurse to bring in the Baby.” 

Mr. Gordon Chillingly.— “ I don’t see the necessity 
for that. Sir Peter. We may take the existence of the Baby 
for granted.” 

Mr. Mivers.— “ It is an advantage to the reputation of 
Sir Peter’s work to preserve the incognito. Omne ignotum 
pro magnifico” 

The Rev. John Stalworth Chillingly.—“ I don’t ap¬ 
prove the cynical levity of such remarks. Of course we 
must all be anxious to see, in the earliest stage of being, the 
future representative of our name and race. Who would 
not wish to contemplate the source, however small, of the 
Tigris or the Nile !-” 

Miss Sally (tittering).—He ! he ! ” 

Miss Margaret. —“ For shame, you giddy thing ! ” 

The Baby enters in the nurse’s arms. All rise and gather 
round the Baby, with one exception—Mr. Gordon, who has 
ceased to be heir-at-law. 

The Baby returned the gaze of its relations with the 
most contemptuous indifference. Miss Sibyl was the first 
to pronounce an opinion on the Baby’s attributes. Said 
she, in a solemn whisper—“What a heavenly mournful ex¬ 
pression ! it seems so grieved to have left the angels ! ” 

The Rev. John.— “ That is prettily said, cousin Sibyl; but 
the infant must pluck up courage and fight its way among 
mortals with a good heart, if it wants to get back to the 




KEMELM CHILLIMGLV. 


angels again. And I think it will ; a fine child.” He took 
it from the nurse, and moving it deliberately up and down, 
as if to weigh it, said cheerfully, “Monstrous heavy! by the 
time it is twenty it will be a match for a prize-fighter of 
fifteen stone ! ” 

Therewith he strode to Gordon, who, as if to show that 
he now considered himself wholly apart from all interest in 
the affairs of a family that had so ill-treated him in the birth 
of that Baby, had taken up the “ Times ” newspaper and 
concealed his countenance beneath the ample sheet. The 
Parson abruptly snatched away the “ Times ” with one hand, 
and, with the other substituting to the indignant eyes of the 
ci-devant heir-at-law the spectacle of the Baby, said, “ Kiss it.” 

“Kiss it! ” echoed Chillingly Gordon, pushing back his 
chair—“ kiss it! pooh, sir, stand off ! I never kissed my 
own baby ; I shall not kiss another man’s. Take the thing 
away, sir ; it is ugly ; it has black eyes.” 

Sir Peter, who was near-sighted, put on his spectacles 
and examined the face of the new-born. “True,” said he, 
“ it has black eyes—very extraordinary—portentous ; the 
first Chillingly that ever had black eyes.” 

“ Its mamma has black eyes,” said Miss Margaret; “ it 
takes after its mamma ; it has not the fair beauty of the 
Chillinglys, but it is not ugly.” 

“ Sweet infant! ” sighed Sibyl; “ and so good—does not 
cry.” 

“ It has neither cried nor crowed since it was born,” said 
the nurse ; “ bless its little heart! ” 

She took the Baby from the Parson’s arms, and smoothed 
back the frill of its cap, which had got ruffled. 

“You may go now, nurse,” said Sir Peter. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ I AGREE with Mr. Shandy,” said Sir Peter, resuming his 
stand on the hearthstone, “that among the responsibilities 
of a parent the choice of a name which his child is to bear 
for life is one of the gravest. And this is especially so with 
those who belong to the order of baronets. In the case of 
a peer, his Christian name, fused in his titular designation, 
disappears. In the case of a Mister, if his baptismal be 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


13 


cacophonous or provocative of ridicule, he need not osten¬ 
tatiously parade it ; he may drop it altogether on his visit¬ 
ing cards, and may be imprinted as Mr. Jones instead of 
Mr. Ebenezer Jones. In his signature, save where the forms 
of the law demand Ebenezer in full, he may only use an in¬ 
itial, and be your obedient servant E. Jones, leaving it to be 
conjectured that E. stands for Edward or Ernest—names in¬ 
offensive, and not suggestive of a Dissenting Chapel, like 
Ebenezer. If a man called Edward or Ernest be detected in 
some youthful indiscretion, there is no indelible stain on his 
moral character ; but if an Ebenezer be so detected, he is 
set down as a hypocrite—it produces that shock on the 
public mind which is felt when a professed saint is proved 
to be a bit of a sinner. But a baronet never can escape from 
his baptismal—it cannot lie perdu^ it cannot shrink into an 
initial, it stands forth glaringly in the light of day ; christen 
him Ebenezer, and he is Sir Ebenezer in full, with all its 
perilous consequences if he ever succomb to those tempta¬ 
tions to which even baronets are exposed. But, my friends, 
it is not only the effect that the sound of a name has upon 
others which is to be thoughtfully considered ; the effect 
that his name produces on the man himself is perhaps still 
more important. Some names stimulate and encourage the 
owner, others deject and paralyze him ; I am a melancholy 
instance of that truth. Peter has been for many genera¬ 
tions, as you are aware, the baptismal to which the eldest- 
born of our family has been devoted. On the altar of that 
name I have been sacrificed. Never has there been a Sir 
Peter Chillingly who has, in any way, distinguished himself 
above his fellows. That name has been a dead weight on 
my intellectual energies. In the catalogue of illustrious 
Englishmen there is, I think, no immortal Sir Peter, except 
Sir Peter Teazle, and he only exists on the comic stage.” 

Miss Sibyl. —‘‘ Sir Peter Lely ? ” 

Sir Peter Chillingly. —“That painter was not an Eng¬ 
lishman. He was born in Westphalia, famous for hams. 

I confine my remarks to the children of our native land. I 
am aware that in foreign countries the name is not an extin¬ 
guisher to the genius of its owner. But why ? In other 
countries its sound is modified. Pierre Corneille was a 
great man ; but I put it to you whether, had he been an 
Englishman, he could have been the father of European 
tragedy as Peter Cro\v ? ” 

Miss Sibyl, —“ Impossible ! ” 


14 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Miss Sally. —“ He ! he ! ” 

Miss Margaret. —“There is nothing to laugh at, you 
giddy child ! ” 

Sir Peter. —“My son shall not be petrified into Peter.” 

Mr. Gordon Chillingly.— “ If a man is such a fool— 
and I don’t say your son will not be a fool, cousin Peter—as 
to be influenced by the sound of his own name, and you 
want the booby to turn the world topsy-turvy, you had bet¬ 
ter call him Julius Caesar, or Hannibal, or Attila, or Char¬ 
lemagne.” 

Sir Peter (who excels mankind in imperturbability of 
temper).—On the contrary, if you inflict upon a man the 
burden of one of those names, the glory of which he cannot 
reasonably expect to eclipse or even to equal, you crush 
him beneath the weight. If a poet were called John Milton 
or William Shakespeare, he could not dare to publish even 
a sonnet. No; the choice of a name lies between the two 
extremes of ludicrous insignificance and oppressive renown. 
For this reason I have ordered the family pedigree to be sus¬ 
pended on yonder wall. Let us examine it with care, and 
see whether, among the Chillinglys themselves or their alli¬ 
ances we can discover a name that can be borne with be¬ 
coming dignity by the destined head of our house—a name 
neither too light nor too heavy.” 

Sir Peter here led the way to the family tree—a goodly 
roll of parchment, with the arms of the family emblazoned 
at the top. Those arms were simple, as ancient heraldic 
coats are—three fishes argent on a field aziir ; the crest a 
mermaid’s head. All flocked to inspect the pedigree, except 
Mr. Gordon, who resumed the “ Times ” newspaper. 

“ I never could quite make out what kind of fishes these 
are,” said the Rev. John Stalworth. “ They are certainly 
not pike, which formed the emblematic blazon of the Ho- 
tofts, and are still grim enough to frighten future Shake- 
speares, on the scutcheon of the Warwickshire Lucys.” 

“I believe they are tenches,” said Mr. Mivers. “The 
tench is a fish that knows how to keep itself safe, by a phil¬ 
osophical taste for an obscure existence in deep holes and 
slush.” 

Sir Peter. —“ No, Mivers ; the fishes are dace, a fish that, 
once introduced into any pond, never can be got out again. 
You may drag the water—you may let off the water—you 
may say ‘ Those dace are extirpated,’—vain thought !—the 
dace reappear as before ; and in thi§ respect the arm§ arc 


KENELM CIII LUNG L K 


really emblamatic of the family. All the disorders and revo* 
lutions that have occurred in England since the Heptarchy 
have left the Chillinglys the same race in the same place. 
Somehow or other the Norman Conquest did not despoil 
them ; they held fiefs under Eudo Dapifer as peacefully as 
they had held them under King Harold ; they took no part 
in the Crusades, nor the Wars of the Roses, nor the Civil 
Wars between Charles I. and the Parliament. As the dace 
sticks to the water, and the water sticks by the dace, so 
the Chillinglys stuck to the land and the land stuck by 
the Chillinglys. Perhaps I am wrong to wish that the new 
Chillingly may be a little less like a dace.” 

“Oh!” cried Miss Margaret, who, mounted on a chair, 
had been inspecting the pedigree througli an eyeglass, “ I 
don’t see a fine Christian name from the beginning, except 
Oliver.” 

Sir Peter. —“ That Chillingly was born in Oliver Crom- 
well’s Protectorate, and named Oliver in compliment to him, 
as his father, born in the reign of James I., was christened 
James. The three fishes always swam with the stream. 
Oliver !—Oliver not a bad name, but significant of radical 
doctrines.” 

Mr. Mivers.— “ I don’t think so. Oliver Cromwell made 
short work of radicals and their doctrines ; but perhaps we 
can find a name less awful and revolutionary.” 

“ I have it—I have it,” cried the Parson. “Here is a 
descent from Sir Kenelm Digby and Venetia Stanley. Sir 
Kenelm Digby ! No finer specimen of muscular Christian¬ 
ity. He fought as well as he wrote ;—eccentric, it is true, 
but always a gentleman. Call the boy Kenelm ! ” 

“A sweet name,” said Miss Sibyl—“it breathes of ro¬ 
mance.” 

“Sir Kenelm Chillingly! It sounds well—imposing! ” 
said Miss Margaret. 

“And,” remarked Mr. Mivers, “it has this advantage— 
that while it has sufficient association with honorable dis¬ 
tinction to affect the mind of the namesake and rouse his 
emulation, it is not that of so stupendous a personage as to 
defy rivalry. Sir Kenelm Digby was certainly an accom¬ 
plished and gallant gentleman ; but what with his silly super¬ 
stition about sympathetic powders, etc., any man nowadays 
might be clever in comparison without being a prodigy. 
Yes, let us decide on Kenelm.” 

Sir Peter meditated. “ Gertainlv,” said he. after a pau§e 


i6 JTEATSLM CHILLINGLY, 

—‘‘ certainly the name of Kenelm carries with it very 
crotchety associations ; and I am afraid that Sir Kenelm 
Digby did not make a prudent choice in marriage. The 
fair Venetia was no better than she should be; and I should 
wish my heir not to be led away by beauty, but wed a woman 
of respectable character and decorous conduct.” 

Miss Margaret. —“ A British matron, of course.” 

Three Sisters (in chorus).—“ Of course—of course ! ” 

“ But,” resumed Sir Peter, “ I am crotchety myself, and 
crochets are innocent things enough ; and as for marriage, 
the Baby cannot marry to-morrow, so that we have ample 
time to consider that matter. Kenelm Digby was a man 
any family might be proud of; and, as you say, sister Mar¬ 
garet, Kenelm Chillingly does not sound amiss—Kenelm 
Chillingly it shall be ! ” 

The Baby was accordingly christened Kenelm, after 
which ceremony its face grew longer than before. 


CHAPTER V. 

Before his relations dispersed. Sir Peter summoned Mr. 
Gordon into his library. 

“Cousin,” said he, kindly, “ I do not blame you for the 
want of family affection, or even of humane interest, which 
you exhibit towards the New-born.” 

“ Blame me, cousin Peter ! I should think not. I ex¬ 
hibit as much family affection and humane interest as could 
be expected from me—circumstances considered.” 

“ I own,” said Sir Peter, with all his wonted mildness, 
“ that after remaining childless for fourteen years of wedded 
life, the advent of this little stranger must have occasioned 
you a disagreeble surprise. But, after all, as I am many 
years younger than you, and, in the course of nature, shall 
outlive you, the loss is less to yourself than to your son, 
and upon that I wish to say a few words. You know too 
well the conditions on which I hold my estate not to be 
aware that I have not legally the power to saddle it with 
any bequest to your boy. The New-born succeeds to the 
fee-simple as last in tail. But I intend, from this moment, 
to lay by something every year for your son out of my in 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


17 


come ; and, fond as I am of London for a part of the year, 
I shall now give up my town-house. If I live to the years 
the Psalmist allots to man, I shall thus accumulate some¬ 
thing handsome for your son, which may be taken in the 
way of compensation.” 

Mr. Gordon was by no means softened by this generous 
speech. However, he answered more politely than was his 
wont, “My son will be very much obliged to you, should 
he ever need your intended bequest.” Pausing a moment, 
he added, with a cheerful smile, “ A large percentage of in¬ 
fants die before attaining the age of twenty-one.” 

“Nay, but I am told your son is an uncommonly fine 
healthy child.” 

“ My son, cousin Peter! I was not thinking of my son, 
but of yours. Yours has a big head. I should not wonder 
if he had water in it. I don’t wish to alarm you, but he 
may go off any day, and in that case it is not likely that 
Lady Chillingly will condescend to replace him. So you 
will excuse me if I still keep a watchful eye on my rights ; 
and, however painful to my feelings, I must still dispute 
your right to cut a stick of the field timber.” 

“That is nonsense, Gordon. I am tenant for life with¬ 
out impeachment of waste, and can cut down all timber not 
ornamental.” 

“ I advise you not, cousin Peter. I have told you before 
that I shall try the question at law, should you provoke it,— 
amicably, of course. Rights are rights ; and if Lam driven 
to maintain mine, I trust that you are of a mind too liberal 
to allow your family affection to me and mine to be influ¬ 
enced by a decree of the Court of Chancery. But my fly 
is waiting. I must not miss the train.” 

“Well, good-bye, Gordon. Shake hands” 

“ Shake hands !—of course—of course. By the by, as I 
came through the lodge, it seemed to me sadly out of repair. 
I believe you are liable for dilapidations. Good-bye.” 

“ The man is a hog in armor,” soliloquized Sir Peter, when 
his cousin was gone ; “ and if it be hard to drive a common 
pig in the way he don’t choose to go, a hog in armor is indeed 
undrivable. But his boy ought not to suffer for his father’s 
hoggishness ; and I shall begin at once to see what I can lay 
by for him. After all, it is hard upon Gordon. Poor Gor¬ 
don !—poor fellow—poor fellow ! Still I hope he will not go 
to law with me. I hate law. And a worm will turn—espe¬ 
cially a worm that is put into Chancery,’* 


IS 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Despite the sinister semi-predictions of the ci-devant heir- 
at-law, the youthful Chillingly passed with safety, and indeed 
with dignity, through the infant stages of existence. He 
took his measles and whooping-cough with philosophical 
equanimity. He gradually acquired the use of speech, but 
he did not too lavishly exercise that special attribute of hu 
inanity. During the earlier years of childhood he spoke as 
little as if he had been prematurely trained in the school of 
Pythagoras. But he evidently spoke the less in order to 
reflect the more. He observed closely and pondered deeply 
over what he observed. At the age of eight he began to 
converse more freely, and it was in that year that he startled 
his mother with the question—“ Mamma, are you not some¬ 
times overpowered by the sense of your own identity ?” 

Lady Chillingly—I was about to say rushed, but Lady 
Chillingly never rushed—Lady Chillingly glided less sedate¬ 
ly than her wont to Sir Peter, and, repeating her son’s ques¬ 
tion, said, “The boy is growing troublesome, too wise for 
any woman ; he must go to school.” 

Sir Peter was of the same opinion. But where on earth 
did the child get hold of so long a word as “ identity,” and 
how did so extraordinary and puzzling a metaphysical ques¬ 
tion come into his head ? Sir Peter summoned Kenelin, and 
ascertained that the boy, having free access to the library, 
had fastened upon Locke on the Human Understanding, and 
was prepared to dispute with that philosopher upon the 
doctrine of innate ideas. Quoth Kenelm, gravely—“ A want 
is an idea ; and if, as soon as I was born, I felt the want of 
food and knew at once where to turn for it, without being 
taught, surely I came into the world with an ‘innate idea.’ ” 

Sir Peter, though he dabbled in metaphysics, was posed, 
and scratched his head without getting out a proper answer 
as to the distinction between ideas'and instincts. “My 
child,” he said at last, “you don’t know what you are talking 
about; go and take a good gallop on your black pony ; and I 
forbid you to read any books that are not given to you by 
tnyself or your mamma. Stick to Puss in Boots.” 


ICEi^ELM CHILLINGL K 


*9 


CHAPTER VII. 

Sir Peter ordered his carriage and drove to the house of 
the stout Parson. That doughty ecclesiastic held a family 
living a few miles distant from the Hall, and was the only 
one of the cousins with whom Sir Peter habitually coni- 
muned on his domestic affairs. 

He found the Parson in his study, which exhibited tastes 
other than clerical. Over the chimney-piece were ranged 
fencing-foils, boxing-gloves, and staffs for the athletic exer¬ 
cise of single-stick ; cricket-bats and fishing-rods filled up 
the angles. There were sundry prints on the walls : one of 
Mr. Wordsworth, flanked by two of distinguished race¬ 
horses ; one of a Leicestershire short-horn, with which the 
Parson, who farmed his own glebe and bred cattle in its 
rich pastures, had won a prize at the county show ; and on 
either side of that animal were the portraits of Hooker and 
Jeremy Taylor. There were dwarf bookcases containing 
miscellaneous works very handsomely bound. At the open 
window, a stand of flower-pots, the flowers in full bloom. 
The Parson’s flowers were famous. 

The appearance of the whole room was that of a man 
who is tidy and neat in his habits. 

‘‘Cousin,” said Sir Peter, “ I have come to consult you.'* 
And therewith he related the marvellous precocity of Ken- 
elm Chillingly. “You see the name begins to work on him 
rather too much. He must go to school ; and now what 
school shall it be ? Private or public ? ” 

The Rev. John Stalworth. —“There is a great deal to 
be said for or against either. At a public school the 
chances are that Kenelm will no longer be overpowered by 
a sense of his own identity; he will more probably lose 
identity altogether. The worst of a public school is that a 
sort of common character is substituted for individual char¬ 
acter. The master, of course, can’t attend to the separate 
development of each boy’s idiosyncrasy. All minds are 
thrown into one great mould, and come out of it more nr 
less in the same form. An Etonian may be clever or stu¬ 
pid, but, as either, he remains emphatically Etonian. A 
public school ripens talent, but its tendency is to stifle ge¬ 
nius. Then, too, a public school for an only son, heir to a 


V 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


good estate, which will be entirely at his own disposal, is 
apt to encourage reckless and extravagant habits ; and your 
estate requires careful management, and leaves no margin 
for an heir’s notes of hand and post-obits. On the whole, 
I am against a public school for Kenelm.” 

“ Well, then, we will decide on a private one.” 

Hold ! ” said the Parson ; “ a private school has its 
drawbacks. You can seldom produce large fishes in small 
ponds. In private schools the competition is narrowed, 
the energies stinted. The schoolmaster’s wife interferes, 
and generally coddles the boys. There is not manliness 
enough in those academies ; no fagging, and very little 
fighting. A clever boy turns out a prig ; a boy of feebler 
intellect turns out a well-behaved young lady in trousers. 
Nothing muscular in the system. Decidedly, the namesake 
and descendant of Kenelm Digby should not go to a private 
seminary.” 

“ So far as I gather from your reasoning,” said Sir Peter 
with characteristic placidity, “ Kenelm Chillingly is not to 
go to school at all.” 

“ It does look like it,” said the Parson, candidly ; “ but, 
on consideration, there is a medium. There are schools 
which unite the best qualities of public and private schools, 
large enough to stimulate and develop energies mental and 
physical, yet not so framed as to melt all character in one 
crucible. For instance, there is a school which has at this 
moment one of the first scholars in Europe for head-master 
—a school which has turned out some of the most remark¬ 
able men of the rising generation. The master sees at a 
glance if a boy be clever, and takes pains with him accord¬ 
ingly. He is not a mere teacher of hexameters and sap- 
phics. His learning embraces all literature, ancient and 
modern. He is a good writer and a fine critic—admires 
Wordsworth. He winks at fighting, his boys know how to 
use their fists, and they are not in the habit of signing post- 
obits before they are fifteen. Merton School is the place 
for Kenelm.” 

“ Thank you,” said Sir Peter. “ It is a great comfort in 
life to find somebody who can decide for one. I am an 
irresolute man myself, and in ordinary matters willingly let 
Lady Chillingly govern me.” 

“I should like to see a wife govern w^,”said the stoutParson. 

“ But you are not married to Lady Chillingly. And now 
let us go into the garden and look at your dahlias.” 


KENELM CHILLmclY, 


ii 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The youthful confuter of Locke was despatched to Mer* 
ton School, and ranked, according to his merits, as lag of 
the penultimate form. When he came home for the Christ¬ 
mas holidays he was more saturnine than ever—in fact, his 
countenance bore the impression of some absoring grief. 
He said, however, that he liked school very well, and eluded 
all other questions. But early the next morning he mount¬ 
ed his black pony and rode to the Parson’s rectory. The 
reverend gentleman was in his farmyard examining his bul¬ 
locks when Kenelm accosted him thus briefly : 

“ Sir, I am disgraced, and I shall die of it if you cannot 
help to set me right in my own eyes.” 

“My dear boy, don’t talk in that way. Come into my 
study.” 

As soon as they entered that room, and the Parson had 
carefully closed the door, he took the boy’s arm, turned him 
round to the light, and saw at once that there was some¬ 
thing very grave on his mind. Chucking him under the 
chin, the Parson said cheerily, “ Hold up your head, Ken¬ 
elm. I am sure you have done nothing unworthy of a gen¬ 
tleman.” 

“ I don’t know that. I fought a boy very little bigger 
than myself, and I have been licked. I did not give in, 
though ; but the other boys picked me up, for I could not 
stand any longer—and the fellow is a great bully—and his 
name is Butt—and he’s the son of a lawyer—and he got my 
head into chancery—and I have challenged him to fight 
again next half—and unless you can help me to lick him, I 
shall never be good for anything in the world—never. It 
will break my heart.” 

“ I am very glad to hear you have had the pluck to chal¬ 
lenge him. Just let me see how you double your fist. 
Well, that’s not amiss. Now, put yourself into a fighting 
attitude, and hit out at me—hard—harder ! Pooh ! that 
will never do. You should make your blows as straight as 
an arrow. And that’s not the way to stand. Stop—so ; well 
on your haunches—weight on your left leg—good ! Now, 
put on these gloves, and I’ll give you a lesson in boxing.” 


22 


fCENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Five minutes afterwards Mrs. John Chillingly, entering 
the room to summon her husband to breakfast, stood as¬ 
tounded to see him with his coat off, and parrying the blows 
of Kenelm, who flew at him like a young tiger. The good 
pastor at that moment might certainly have appeared a fine 
type of muscular Christianity, but not of that kind of Chris¬ 
tianity out of which one makes Archbishops of Canterbury. 

“Good gracious me!” faltered Mrs. John Chillingly? 
and then, wife-like, flying to the protection of her husband, 
she seized Kenelm by the shoulders, and gave him a good 
shaking. The Parson, who was sadly out of breath, was 
not displeased at the interruption, but took that opportu¬ 
nity to put on his coat, and said, “We’ll begin again to¬ 
morrow. Now, come to breakfast.” But during breakfast 
Kenelm’s face still betrayed dejection, and he talked little, 
and ate less. 

As soon as the meal was over, he drew the Parson into 
the garden and said, “ I have been thinking, sir, that per¬ 
haps it is not fair to Butt, that I should be taking these 
lessons ; and if it is not fair. I’d rather not-” 

“ Give me your hand, my boy ! ” cried the Parson, trans¬ 
ported. “ The name of Kenelm is not thrown away upon 
you. The natural desire of man in his attribute of fighting 
animal (an attribute in which, I believe, he excels all other 
animated beings, except a quail and a gamecock), is to beat 
his adversary. But the natural desire of that culmination 
of man which we call gentleman, is to beat his adversary 
fairly. A gentleman would rather be beaten fairly than 
beat unfairly. Is not that your thought?” 

“Yes,” replied Kenelm, firmly ; and then, beginning to 
philosophize, he added,^—“ And it stands to reason ; be¬ 
cause if I beat a fellow unfairly, I don’t really beat him at 
all.” 

“ Excellent! But suppose that you and another boy go 
into examination upon Caesar’s Commentaries or the multi- 
plication-table, and the other boy is cleverer than you, but 
you have taken the trouble to learn the subject and he has 
not; should you say you beat him unfairly ? ” 

Kenelm meditated a moment, and then said decidedly, 
“ No.” 

“That which applies to the use of your brains applies 
equally to the use of your fists. Do you comprehend me ? ” 

“Yes, sir ; I do now.” 

“ In the time of your namesake. Sir Kenelm Digby, gen* 



KENKLM CFIILLhVGLY. 


23 


tlemen wore swords, and they learned how to use them, be¬ 
cause, in case of quarrel, they had to fight with them. 
Nobody, at least in England, fights with swords now. It is 
a democratic age, and if you fight at all, you are reduced to 
fists ; and if Kenelm Digby learned to fence, so Kenelm 
Chillingly must learn to box ; and if a gentleman thrashes a 
drayman twice his size, who has not learned to box, it is not 
unfair ; it is but an exemplification of the truth, that knowl¬ 
edge is power. Come and take another lesson on boxing 
to-morrow.” 

Kenelm remounted his pony and returned home. He 
found his father sauntering in the garden with a book in his 
hand. “ Papa,” said Kenelm, “ how does one gentleman 
write to another with whom he has a quarrel, and he don’t 
want to make it up, but he has something to say about 
the quarrel which it is fair the other gentleman should 
know ? ” 

“ I don’t understand what you mean.” 

“ Well, just before I went to school I remember hearing 
you say that you had a quarrel with Lord Hautfort, and that 
he was an ass, and you would write and tell him so. When 
you wrote did you say, ‘ You are an ass ’ ? Is that the way 
one gentleman writes to another ? ” 

“ Upon my honor, Kenelm, you ask very odd questions. 
But you cannot learn too early this fact, that irony is to the 
high-bred what billingsgate is to the vulgar ; and when one 
gentleman thinks another gentleman an ass, he does not say 
it point-blank—he implies it in the politest terms he can 
invent. . Lord Hautfort denies my right of free warren over 
a trout-stream that runs through his lands. I don’t care a 
rush about the trout-stream, but there is no doubt of my 
right to fish in it. He was an ass to raise the question ; for, 
if he had not, I should not have exercised the right. As he 
did raise the question, I was obliged to catch his trout,” 

“ And you wrote a letter to him ?” 

“ Yes. ” 

“ How did you write, papa ? What did you say ? ” 

“ Something like this. ‘ Sir Peter Chillingly presents his 
compliments to Lord Hautfort, and thinks it fair to his lord- 
ship to say that he has taken the best legal advice with re¬ 
gard to his rights of free warren, and trusts to be forgiven 
if he presumes to suggest that Lord Hautfort might do well 
to consult his own lawyer before he decides on disputing 
them.’ ” 


24 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


“Thank you, papa. I see-” 

That evening Kenelm wrote the following letter : 

“ Mr. Chillingly presents his .compliments to Mr. Butt, and thinks it fail 
to Mr. Butt to say, that he is taking lessons in boxing, and trusts to be for¬ 
given if he presumes to suggest that Mr. Butt might do well to take lessons 
himself before fighting with Mr. Chillingly next half.” 


“ Papa,” said Kenelm the next morning, “ I want to write 
to a schoolfellow whose name is Butt ; he is the son of a 
lawyer who is called a serjeant. I don’t know where to 
direct to him.” 

“That is easily ascertained,” said Sir Peter. “Serjeant 
Butt is an eminent man, and his address will be in the 
Court Guide.” The address was found—Bloomsbury 
Square, and Kenelm directed his letter accordingly. In 
due course he received this answer: 


“You are an insolent little fool, and I’ll thrash you within an inch of 
your life. 


“ Robert Butt.” 


After the receipt of that polite epistle, Kenelm Chilling- 
ly’s scruples vanished, and he took daily lessons in muscu¬ 
lar Christianity. 

Kenelm returned to school with a brow cleared from 
care, and three days after his return he wrote to the Rev. 
John : 


“ Dear Sir, —I have licked Butt. Knowledge is power. Your affec¬ 
tionate 


“ Kenelm. 

P. S .—Now that I have licked Butt, I have made it up with him.” 


From that time Kenelm prospered. Eulogistic letters 
from the illustrious head-master showered in upon Sir Peter. 
At the age of sixteen Kenelm Chillingly was the head of the 
school, and quitting it finally, brought home the following 
letter from his Orbilius to Sir Peter, marked “ confidential ” : 


“ Dear Sir Peter Chillingly, —I have never felt more anxious for the 
future career of any of my pvipils than I do for that of your son. He is so 
clever that, Avith ease to himself, he may become a great man. He is so pecu¬ 
liar, that it is quite as likely that he may only make himself known to the 
world as a great oddity. That distinguished teacher, Dr. Arnold, said that 
the difference between one boy and another was not so much talent as energy. 
Your son has talent, has energy,—yet he wants something for success in life ; 


KENELM Chillingly. 


25 


he wants the faculty of amalgamation. He is of a melancholic and therefore 
unsocial temperament. He will not act in concert with others. He is lovable 
enough ; the other boys like him, especially the smaller ones, with whom he 
he is a sort of hero; but he has not one intimate friend. So far as school 
learning is concerned, he might go to college at once, and vith the certainty 
of distinction, provided he chose to exert himself. But if I may venture to 
offer an advice, I should say employ the next two years in letting him see a 
little more of real life and acquire a due sense of its practical objects. Send 
him to a private tutor who is not a pedant, but a man of letters or a man of 
the world, and if in the metropolis so much the better. In a word, my young 
friend is unlike other people; and, with qualities that might do anything in 
life, I fear, unless you can get him to be like other people, that he will do 
nothing. Excuse the freedom with which I write, and ascribe it to the sin¬ 
gular interest with which your son has inspired me. I have the honor to be, 
dear Sir Peter, yours truly, 

“ William Horton.” 

Upon the strength of this letter Sir Peter did not indeed 
summon another family council ; for he did not consider 
that his three maiden sisters could offer any practical ad¬ 
vice on the matter. And as to Mr. Gordon, that gentleman 
having gone to law on the great timber question, and hav¬ 
ing been signally beaten thereon, had informed Sir Peter 
that he disowned him as a cousin and despised him as a man 
—not exactly in those words—more covertly, and therefore 
more stingingly. But Sir Peter invited Mr. Mivers for a 
week’s shooting, and requested the Rev. John to meet him. 

Mr. Mivers arrived. The sixteen years that had elapsed 
since he was first introduced to the reader, had made no 
perceptible change in his appearance. It was one of his 
maxims that in youth a man of the world should appear 
older than he is ; and in middle age, and thence to his dy¬ 
ing day, younger. And he announced one secret for attain¬ 
ing that art in these words : “ Begin your wig early, thus 
you never become gray.” 

Unlike most philosophers, Mivers made his practice con¬ 
form to his precepts ; and while in the prime of youth in¬ 
augurated a wig in a fashion that defied the flight of time, 
not curly and hyacinthine, but straight-haired and unassum¬ 
ing. He looked five-and-thirty from the day he put on that 
wig at the age of twenty-five. He looked five-and-thirty 
now at the age of fifty-one. 

“ I mean,” said he, “ to remain thirty-five all my life. No 
better age to stick at. People may choose to say I am more, 
but I shall not own it. No one is bound to criminate him¬ 
self.” 

Mr. Mivers had some other apliorisms on this important 


26 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


subject. One was, ‘‘ Refuse to be ill. Never tell people 
you are ill ; never own it yourself. Illness is one of those 
things which a nian should resist on principle at the onset. 
It should never be allowed to get in the thin end of the 
wedge. But take care of your constitution, and, having 
ascertained the best habits for it, keep to them like cIock- 
work.” Mr. Mivers would not have missed his constitutional 
walk in the Park before breakfast, if, by going in a cab to 
St. Giles’s, he could have saved the city of London from 
conflagration. 

Another aphorism of his was, “ If you want to keep 
young, live in a metropolis ; never stay above a few weeks 
at a time in the country. Take two men of similar constitu¬ 
tion at the age of twenty-five ; let one live in London and 
enjoy a regular sort of club-life ; send the other to some 
rural district, preposterously called ‘ salubrious.’ Look at 
these men when they have both reached the age of forty- 
five. The London man has preserved his figure, the rural 
man has a paunch. The London man has an interesting 
delicacy of complexion ; the face of the rural man is coarse¬ 
grained and perhaps jowly.” 

A third axiom was, “ Don’t be a family man ; nothing 
ages one like matrimonial felicity and paternal ties. Never 
multiply cares, and pack up your life in the briefest compass 
you can. Why add to your carpet-bag of troubles the con¬ 
tents of a lady’s imperials and bonnet-boxes, and the travel¬ 
ing fourgon required by the nursery ? Shun ambition—it is 
so gouty. It takes a great deal out of a man’s life, and 
gives him nothing worth having till he has ceased to enjoy 
it.” 

Another of his aphorisms was this, “A fresh mind keeps 
the body fresh. Take in the ideas of the day, drain off 
those of yesterday. As to the morrow, time enough to con¬ 
sider it when it becomes to-day.” 

Preserving himself by attention to these rules, Mr. Mivers 
appeared at Exmundham totus^ teres, but not rotundiis —a 
man of middle height, slender, upright, with well-cut, small, 
slight features, thin lips, enclosing an excellent set of teeth, 
even, white, and not indebted to the dentist. For the sake 
of those teeth he shunned acid wines, especially hock in all 
its varieties, culinary sweets, and hot drinks. He drank 
even his tea cold. “There are,” he said, “two things in life 
that a sage must preserve at every sacrifice, the coats of his 
stomach and the enamel of his teeth. Some evils admit of 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


25 


consolations : there are no comforters for dyspepsia and 
toothache.” A man of letters, but a man of the world, he 
had so cultivated his mind as both, that he was feared as 
the one, and liked as the other. As a man of letters he 
despised the world ; as a man of the world he despised let¬ 
ters. As a representative of both he revered himself. 


CHAPTER IX. 

On the evening of the third day from the arrival of Mr. 
Mivers, he, the Parson, and Sir Peter were seated in the 
host’s parlor, the Parson in an arm-chair by the ingle, 
smoking a short cutty-pipe; Mivers at length on the couch, 
slowly inhaling the perfumes of one of his own choice 
irabucos. Sir Peter never smoked. There were spirits and 
hot water and lemons on the table. The Parson was famed 
for skill in the composition of toddy. From time to time the 
Parson sipped his glass, and Sir Peter, less frequently, did 
the same. It is needless to say that Mr. Mivers eschewed 
toddy ; but beside him, on a chair, was a tumbler and large 
carafe of iced water. 

Sir Peter.— “ Cousin Mivers, you have now had time to 
study Kenelm, and to compare his character with that as¬ 
signed to him in the Doctor’s letter.” 

Mivers (languidly).—“Ay.” 

Sir Peter. —‘‘ I ask you, as a man of the world, what you 
think I had best do with the boy. Shall I send him to 
such a tutor as the Doctor suggests? Cousin John is not 
of the same mind as the Doctor, and thinks that Kenelm’s 
oddities are fine things in their way, and should not be pre¬ 
maturely ground out of him by contact with worldly tutors 
and London pavements.” 

“Ay,” repeated Mr. Mivers, more languidly than before. 
After a pause he added, “Parson John, let us hear you.” 

The Parson laid aside his cutty-pipe, and emptied his 
fourth tumbler of toddy, then, throwing back his head in 
the dreamy fashion of the great Coleridge when he indulged 
in a monologue, he thus began, speaking somewhat through 
his nose : 

“At the morning of life-” 



2^ 


kENELM chillingly. 


Here Mivers shrugged his shoulders, turned round oti 
his couch, and closed his eyes with the sigh of a man resign¬ 
ing himself to a homily. 

“ At the morning of life, when the dews-” 

“I knew the dews were coming,” said Mivers. “Dry 
them, if you please ; nothing so unwholesome. We anticipate 
what you mean to say, which is plainly this—When a fellow 
is sixteen he is very fresh ; so he is. Pass on—what then ?” 

“ If you mean to interrupt me with your habitual cyni¬ 
cism,” said the Parson, “ why did you ask to hear me ? ” 
“That was a mistake, I grant ; but who on earth could 
conceive that you were going to commence in that florid 
style ? Morning of life indeed !—bosh !“ 

“Cousin Mivers,” said Sir Peter, “you are not reviewing 
John’s style in ‘ The Londoner ; ’ and I will beg you to 
remember that my son’s morning of life is a serious thing to 
his father, and not to be nipped in its bud by a cousin. Pro' 
ceed, John ! ” 

Quoth the Parson, good-humoredly, “ I will adapt my 
style to.the taste of my critic. When a fellow is at the age 
of sixteen, and very fresh to life, the question is whether he 
should begin thus prematurely to exchange the ideas that 
belong to youth for the ideas that properly belong to mid¬ 
dle age,—whether he should begin to acquire that knowl¬ 
edge of the world which middle-aged men have acquired and 
can teach. I think not. I would rather have him yet 
awhile in the company of the poets—in the indulgence of 
glorious hopes and beautiful dreams, forming to himself 
some type of the Heroic, which he will keep before his eyes 
as a standard when he goes into the world as man. There 
are two schools of thought for the formation of character— 
the Real and Ideal. I would form the character in the Ideal 
school, in order to make it boldere and grander and lovelier 
when it takes place in that every-day life which is called 
the Real. And therefore I am not for placing the descendant 
of Sir Kenelm Digby, in the interval between school and 
college, with a man of the world, probably as cynical as 
cousin Mivers, and living in the stony thoroughfares of 
London.” 

Mr. Mivers (rousing himself).—“ Before we plunge into 
that Serbonian bog—the controversy between the Realistic 
and the Idealistic academicians-—I think the first thing to 
decide is what you want Kenelm to be hereafter. When I 
order a pair of shoes, I decide beforehand what kind of shoes 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


29 


they are to be—court pumps or strong walking-shoes ; and 
I don’t ask the shoemaker to give me a preliminary lecture 
upon the different purposes of locomotion to which leather 
can be applied. If, Sir Peter, you want Kenelm to scribble 
lackadaisical poems, listen to Parson John ; if you want to 
fill his head with pastoral rubbish about innocent love, which 
may end in marrying the Miller’s Daughter, listen to Parson 
John ; if you want him to enter life a soft-headed greenhorn, 
who will sign any bill carrying fifty per cent, to which a 
young scamp asks him to be security, listen to Parson John : 
in fine, if you wish a clever lad to become cither a pigeon or 
a ring-dove, a credulous booby or a sentimental milksop. 
Parson John is the best adviser you can have.” 

“ But I don’t want my son to ripen into either of those 
imbecile developments of species.” 

“Then don’t listen to Parson John ; and there’s an end 
of the discussion.” 

“ No, there is not. I have not heard your advice what to 
do if John’s advice is not to be taken.” 

Mr. Mivers hesitated. He seemed puzzled. 

“The fact is,” said the Parson, “that Mivers got up 
^The Londoner’ upon a principle that regulates his own 
mind,—find fault with the way everything is done, but never 
commit yourself by saying how anything can be done 
better.” 

“ That is true,” said Mivers, candidly. “The destructive 
order of mind is seldom allied to the constructive. I and 
‘The Londoner’ are destructive by nature and by policy. 
We can reduce a building into rubbish, but we don’t profess 
to turn rubbish into a building. We are critics, and, as you 
say, not such fools as to commit ourselves to the proposition 
of amendments that can be criticised by others. Neverthe¬ 
less, for your sake, cousin Peter, and on the condition that if 
I give my advice you will never say that I gave it, and if you 
take it, that you will never reproach me if it turns out, as 
most advice does, very ill—I will depart from my custom 
and hazard my opinion.” 

“ I accept the conditions.” 

“ Well, then, with every new generation there springs 
up a new order of ideas. The earlier the age at which a 
man seizes the ideas that will influence his own generation, 
the more he has a start in the race with his contemporaries. 
If Kenelm comprehends at sixteen those intellectual signs 
of the time which, when he goes up to college, he will find 


KENELM CmLLfJVGLY. 


young men of eighteen or twenty only just prepared X.o com¬ 
prehend, he will produce a deep impression of his powers 
for reasoning, and their adaptation to actual life, which will 
be of great service to him later. Now the ideas that in¬ 
fluence the mass of the rising generation never have their 
well-head in the generation itself. They have their source 
in the generation before them, generally in .a small minor¬ 
ity, neglected or contemned by the great majority which 
adopt them later. Therefore a lad at the age of sixteen, if 
he wants to get at such ideas, must come into close contact 
with some superior mind in which they were conceived 
twenty or thirty years before. I am consequently for plac¬ 
ing Kenelm with a person from whom the new ideas can be 
learned. I am also for his being placed in the metropolis 
during the process of this initiation. With such introduc¬ 
tions as are at our command, he may come in contact not 
only with new ideas, but with eminent men in all vocations. 
It is a great thing to mix betimes with clever people. One 
picks their brains unconsciously. There is another advan¬ 
tage, and not a small one, in this early entrance into good 
society. A youth learns manners, self-possession, readiness 
of resource ; and he is much less likely to get into scrapes 
and contract tastes for low vices and mean dissipation, when 
he comes into life wholly his own master, after having 
acquired a predilection for refined companionship, under 
the guidance of those competent to select it. There, I have 
talked myself out of breath. And you had better decide at 
once in favor of my advice ; for as I am of a contradictory 
temperament, myself of to-morrow may probably contradict 
myself of to-day.” 

Sir Peter was greatly impressed with his cousin’s argu¬ 
mentative eloquence. 

The Parson smoked his cutty-pipe in silence until ap¬ 
pealed to by Sir Peter, and he then said, “ In this pro-^ 
gramme of education for a Christian gentleman, the part of 
Christian seems to me left out.” 

“ The tendency of the age,” observed Mr. Mivers, calmly, 
“ is towards that omission. Secular education is the neces¬ 
sary reaction from the special theological training which 
arose in the dislike of one set of Christians to the teaching 
of another set; and as these antagonists will not agree how 
religion is to be taught, either there must be no teaching at 
all, or religion must be eliminated from the tuition.” 

That may do very well for some huge system of national 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


3 ‘ 

education,” said Sir Peter, “ but it does not apply to Kenelm, 
as one of a family all of whose members belong to the Estab¬ 
lished Church. He may be taught the creed of his forefa¬ 
thers without offending a Dissenter.” 

“ Which Established Church is he to belong to ? ” asked 
Mr. Mivers,—“ High Church, Low Church, Broad Church, 
Puseyite Church, Ritualistic Church, or any other Estab¬ 
lished Church that may be coming into fashion ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said the Parson. “ That sneer is out of place. 
You know very well that one merit of our Church is the 
spirit of toleration, which does not magnify every variety of 
opinion into a heresy or a schism. But if Sir Peter sends 
his son at the age of sixteen to a tutor who eliminates the 
religion of Christianity from his teaching, he deserves to be 
thrashed within an inch of his life ; and,” continued the 
Parson, eyeing Sir Peter sternly, and mechanically turning 
up his cuffs, “ I should like to thrash him.” 

“Gently, John,” said Peter, recoiling; “gently, my dear 
kinsman. My heir shall not be educated as a heathen, and 
Mivers is only bantering us. Come, Mivers, do you happen 
to know among your London friends some man who, though 
a scholar and a man of the world, is still a Christian ? ” 

“ A Christian as by law establisfi^'d^” ' 

“ Well—yes.” 

“ And who will receive Kenelm as a pupil ? ” 

“ Of course I am not putting such questions to you out 
of idle curiosity.” 

“ I know exactly the man. He was originally intended 
for orders, and is a very learned theologian. He relin¬ 
quished the thought of the clerical profession on succeed¬ 
ing to a small landed estate by the sudden death of an elder 
brother. He then came to London and bought experience : 
that is, he was naturally generous—he became easily taken 
in—got into difficulties—the estate was transferred to trus¬ 
tees for the benefit of creditors, and on the payrnent of ^^400 
a year to himself. By this time he was married and had 
two children. He found the necessity of employing his pen 
in order to add to his income, and is one of the ablest con¬ 
tributors to the periodical press. He is an elegant scholar, 
an effective writer, much courted by public men, a thorough 
gentleman, has a pleasant house, and receives the best so¬ 
ciety. Having been once taken in, he defies any one to take 
him in again. His experience was not bought too dearly. 
No more acute and accomplished man of the world. The 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 

ihree hundred a year or so that you would pay for Kenelm 
would suit him very well. His name is Welby, and he lives 
in Chester Square.” 

“ No doubt he is a contributor to ‘ The Londoner,’” said 
the Parson, sarcastically. 

“ True. He writes our classical, theological, and meta¬ 
physical articles. Suppose I invite him to come here for a 
day or two, and you can see him and judge for yourself, Sir 
Peter ? ” 

“ Do.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Mr. Welby arrived and pleased everybody. A man of 
the happiest manners, easy and courteous. There was no 
pedantry in him, yet you could soon see that his reading 
covered an extensive surface, and here and there had dived 
deeply. He enchanted the Parson by his comments on St. 
Chrysostom ; he dazzled Sir Peter with his lore in the an¬ 
tiquities of ancient Britain ; he captivated Kenelm by his 
readiness to enter into that most disputatious of sciences 
called metaphysics ; while for Lady Chillingly, and the three 
sisters who were invited to meet him, he was more entertain¬ 
ing, but not less instructive. Equally at home in novels and 
in good books, he gave to the spinsters a list of innocent 
works in either ; while for Lady Chillingly he sparkled with 
anecdotes of fashionable life, the newest bons mots^ the latest 
scandals. In fact, Mr. Welby was one of those brilliant per¬ 
sons who adorn any society amidst which they are thrown. 
If at heart he was a disappointed man, the disappointment 
was concealed by an even serenity of spirits ; he had enter¬ 
tained high and justifiable hopes of a brilliant career and a 
lasting reputation as a theologian and a preacher; the suc¬ 
cession to his estate at the age of twenty-three had changed 
the nature of his ambition. The charm of his manner was 
such that he sprang at once into the fashion, and became 
beguiled by his own genial temperament into that lesser 
but pleasanter kind of ambition which contents itself with 
social successes and enjoys the present hour. When his 
circumstances compelled him to eke out his income by lit¬ 
erary profits, he slid into the grooves of periodical composi¬ 
tion, and resigned all thoughts of the labor required for any 



keneljM chillingly. 


33 


complete work, which might take much time and be attend¬ 
ed with scanty profits. He still remained very popular in 
society, and perhaps his general reputation for ability made 
him fearful to hazard it by any great undertaking. He was 
not, like Mivers, a despiser of all men and all things ; but 
he regarded men and things as an indifferent though good- 
natured spectator regards the thronging streets from a 
drawing-room window. He could not be called blasc\ but 
he was thoroughly desillusiomiL Once over-romantic, his 
character now was so entirely imbued with the neutral tints 
of life that romance olfended his taste as an obtrusion of 
violent color into a sober woof. He was become a thorough 
Realist in his code of criticism, and in his worldly mode of 
action and thought. But Parson John did not perceive this, 
for Welby listened to that gentleman’s eulogies on the Ideal 
school without troubling himself to contradict them. He 
had grown too indolent to be combative in conversation, and 
only as a critic betrayed such pugnacity as remained to him 
by the polished cruelty of sarcasm. 

He came off with flying colors through an examination 
into his Church orthodoxy instituted by the Parson and Sir 
Peter. Amid a cloud of ecclesiastical erudition, his own 
opinions vanished in those of the Fathers. In truth, he was 
a Realist in religion as in everything else. He regarded 
Christianity as a type of existent civilization, which ought 
to be reverenced, as one might recognize the other types of 
that civilization—such as the liberty of the press, the repre¬ 
sentative system, white neckcloths and black coats of an 
evening, etc. He belonged, therefore, to what he himself 
called the school of Eclectical Christiology, and accommo¬ 
dated the reasonings of Deism to the doctrines of the 
Church, if not as a creed, at least as an institution. Finally, 
he united all the Chillingly votes in Ids favor ; and when he 
departed from the Hall, carried off Kenelm for his initiation 
into the new ideas that were to govern his generation. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Kenelm remained a year and a half with this distinguish¬ 
ed preceptor. During that time he learned much in book- 
lore ; he saw much, too, of the eminent men of the day, in 



34 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


liteiature, the law, and the senate. He saw, also, a good 
deal of the fashionable world. Fine ladies, who had been 
friends of his mother in her youth, took him up, counseled 
and petted him. One in especial, the Marchioness of Gleii- 
alvon, to whom he was endeared by grateful association. 
For her youngest son had been a fellow-pupil of Kenelm’s 
at Merton School, and Kenelm had saved his fife from drown¬ 
ing. The poor boy died of consumption later, and her grief 
for his loss made her affection for Kenelm yet more tender. 
Lady Glenalvon was one of the queens of the London world. 
Though in her fiftieth year, she was still very handsome ; 
she was. also very accomplished, very clever, and very kind- 
hearted, as some of such queens are ; just one of those 
women invaluable in forming the manners and elevating 
the character of young men destined to make a figure in 
after-life. But she was very angry with herself in thinking 
that she failed to arouse any such ambition in the heir of 
the Chillinglys. 

It may here be said that Kenelm was not without great 
advantages of form and countenance. He was tall, and the 
youthful grace of his proportions concealed his physical 
strength, which was extraordinary rather from the iron text¬ 
ure than the bulk of his thews and sinews. His face, though 
it certainly lacked the roundness of youth, had a grave, som¬ 
bre, haunting sort of beauty, not artistically regular, but 
picturesque, peculiar, with large dark expressive eyes, and 
a certain indescribable combination of sweetness and melan¬ 
choly in his quiet smile. He never laughed audibly, but he 
had a quick sense of the comic, and his eye would laugh 
when his lips were silent. He would say queer, droll, unex¬ 
pected things, which passed for humor ; but, save for that 
gleam in the eye, he could not have said them with more 
seeming innocence of intentional joke if he had been a monk 
of La Trappe looking up from the grave he was digging in 
order to utter “memento mori.” 

That face of his was a great “ take in.” Women thought 
it full of romantic sentiment—the face of one easily moved 
to love, and whose love would be replete alike with poetry 
and passion. But he remained as proof as the youthful 
Hippolytus to all female attraction. He delighted the Par¬ 
son by keeping up his practice in athletic pursuits, and ob¬ 
tained a reputation at the pugilistic school, which he attend¬ 
ed regularly, as the best gentleman boxer about town. 

fie made many acquaintances, but still formed no friend- 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY^ 


3 S 

ships. Yet every one who saw him much conceived affection 
for him. If he did not return that affection, he did not 
repel it. He was exceedingly gentle in voice and manner, 
and had all his father’s placidity of temper—children and 
dogs took to him as by instinct. 

On leaving Mr. Welby’s, Kenelm carried to Cambridge 
a mind largely stocked with the new ideas that were bud¬ 
ding into leaf. He certainly astonished the other freshmen, 
and occasipnally puzzled the mighty Fellows of Trinity and 
St. John’s. But he gradually withdrew himself much from 
general society. In fact, he was too old in mind for his 
years ; and after having mixed in the choicest circles of a 
metropolis, college suppers and wine parties had little charm 
for him. He maintained his pugilistic renown ; and on cer¬ 
tain occasions, when some delicate undergraduate had been 
bullied by some gigantic bargeman, his muscular Christian¬ 
ity nobly developed itself. He did not do as much as he 
might have done in the more intellectual ways of academical 
distinction. Still, he was always among the first in the col¬ 
lege examinations ; he won two university prizes, and took 
a very creditable degree, after which he returned home, more 
odd, more saturnine—in short, less like other people—than 
when he had left Merton School. He had woven a solitude 
round him out of his own heart, and in that solitude he sate 
still and watchful as a spider sits in his web. 

Whether from natural temperament, or from his educa¬ 
tional training under such teachers as Mr. Mivers, who car¬ 
ried out the new ideas of reform by revering nothing in the 
past, and Mr. Welby, who accepted the routine of the pre¬ 
sent as realistic, and pooh-poohed all visions of the future 
as idealistic, Kenelm’s chief mental characteristic was a kind 
of tranquil indifferentism. It was difficult to detect in him 
either of those ordinary incentives to action—vanity or am¬ 
bition, the yearning for applause or the desire of power. 
To all female fascinations he had been hitherto star-proof. 
He had never experienced love, but he had read a good deal 
about it, and that passion seemed to him an unaccountable 
aberration of human reason, and an ignominious surrender 
of the equanimity of thought which it should be the object 
of masculine natures to maintain undisturbed. A very elo¬ 
quent book in praise of celibacy, and entitled “The Ap¬ 
proach to the Angels,” written by that eminent Oxford schol¬ 
ar, Decimus Roach, had produced so remarkable an effect 
upon his youthful mind, that, ’’"d he been a Roman Catholic, 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


36 

he might have become a monk. Where he most evinced 
ardor, it was a logician’s ardor for abstract truth—that is, 
for what he considered truth ; and as what seems truth to 
one man is sure to seem falsehood to some other man, this 
predilection of his was not without its inconveniences and 
dangers, as may probably be seen in the following chapter. 
Meanwhile, rightly to appreciate his conduct therein, I 
entreat thee, O candid Reader (not that any Reader evei is 
candid), to remember that he is brimful of new ideas, which, 
met by a deep and hostile undercurrent of old ideas, become 
more provocatively billowy and surging. 


CHAPTER XII. 

There had been great festivities at Exmundham, in cele¬ 
bration of the honor bestowed upon the world by the fact 
that Kenelm Chillingly had lived twenty-one years in it. 

The young heir had made a speech to the assembled 
tenants and other admitted revellers, which had by no means 
added to the exhilaration of the proceedings. He spoke 
with a fluency and self-possession which were surprising in a 
youth addressing a multitude for the first time. But his 
speech was not cheerful. 

The principal tenant on the estate, in proposing his 
health, had naturally referred to the long line of his ances¬ 
tors. His father’s merits as a man and landlord had been 
enthusiastically commemorated, and many happy auguries 
for his own future career had been drawn, partly from the 
excellences of his parentage, partly from his own youthful 
promise in the honors achieved at the university. 

Kenelm Chillingly in reply largely availed himself of 
those new ideas which were to influence the rising genera¬ 
tion, and with which he had been rendered familiar by the 
journal of Mr. Mivers and the conversation of Mr. Welby. 

He briefly disposed of the ancestral part of the question. 
He observed that it was singular to note how long any given 
family or dynasty could continue to flourish in any given 
nook of matter in creation, without any exhibition of intel¬ 
lectual powers beyond those displayed by a succession of 
vegetable crops. “It is certainly true,” he said, “that the 



kENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Chillinglys have lived in this place from father to son for 
about a fourth part of the history of the world, since the date 
which Sir Isaac Newton assigns to the Deluge. But, so far 
as can be judged by existent records, the world has not been 
in any way wiser or better for their existence. They were 
born to eat as long ar they could eat, and when they could 
eat no longer they died. Not that in this respect they were 
a whit less insignificant than the generality of their fellow- 
creatures. Most of us now present,” continued the youthful 
orator, “ are only born in order to die ; and the chief con¬ 
solation of our wounded pride in admitting this fact, is in 
the probability that our posterity will not be of more conse¬ 
quence to the scheme of nature than we ourselves are.” 
Passing from that philosophical view of his own ancestors 
in particular, and of the human race in general, Kenelm 
Chillingly then touched with serene analysis on the eulogies 
lavished on his father as man and landlord. 

“As man,” he said, “my father no doubt deserves all 
that can be said by man in favor of man. But what, at the 
best, is man ? A crude, struggling, undeveloped embryo, of 
whom it is the highest attribute that he feels a vague con¬ 
sciousness that he is only an embryo, and cannot complete 
himself till he ceases to be a man ; that is, until he becomes 
another being in another form of existence. We can praise a 
dog as a dog, because a dog is a completed ens, and not an em¬ 
bryo. But to praise a man as man, forgetting that he is only 
a germ out of which a form wholly different is ultimately to 
spring, is equally opposed to Scriptural belief in his present 
crudity and imperfection, and to psychological or metaphys¬ 
ical examination of a mental construction evidently design¬ 
ed for purposes that he can never fulfil as man. That my 
father is an embryo not more incomplete than any present, 
is quite true ; but that, you will see on reflection, is saying 
very little on his behalf. Even in the boasted physical form¬ 
ation of us men, you are aware that the best-shaped amongst 
us, according to the last scientific discoveries, is only a de¬ 
velopment of some hideous hairy animal, such as a gorilla ; 
and the ancestral gorilla itself had its own aboriginal fore¬ 
father in a small marine animal shaped like a two-necked 
bottle. The probability is that, some day or other, we shall 
be exterminated by a new development of species. 

“As for the merits assigned to my father as landlord, 1 
must respectfully dissent from the panegyrics so rashly be¬ 
stowed no him. For all sound reasoners must concur in 


33 


KEMELM CHlLLlKGT.y. 


this, that the first duty of an owner of land is not to the oc¬ 
cupiers to whom he leases it, but to the nation at large. It 
is his duty to see that the land yields to the community the 
utmost it can yield. In order to effect this object a landlord 
should put up his farms to competition, exacting the highest 
rent he can possibly get from responsible competitors. 
Competitive examination is the enlightened order of the 
day, even in professions in which the best men would have 
qualities that defy examination. In agriculture, happily, 
the principle of competitive examination is not so hostile to 
the choice of the best man as it must be, for instance, in 
diplomacy, where a Talleyrand would be excluded for 
knowing no language but his own ; and still more in the 
army, where promotion would be denied to an officer who, 
like Marlborough, could not spell. But in agriculture a 
landlord has only to inquire who can give the highest rent, 
having the largest capital, subject by the strictest penalties 
of law to the conditions of a lease dictated by the most sci¬ 
entific agriculturists under penalties fixed by the most cau¬ 
tious conveyancers. By this mode of procedure, recom¬ 
mended by the most liberal economists of our age—barring 
those still more liberal who deny that property in land is 
any property at all—by this mode of procedure, I say, a 
landlord does his duty to his country. He secures tenants 
who can produce the most to the community by their capi¬ 
tal, tested through competitive examination into their 
bankers’ accounts and the security they can give, and 
through the rigidity of covenants suggested by a Liebig 
and reduced into law by a Chitty. But on my father’s land 
I see a great many tenants with little skill and less capital, 
ignorant of a Liebig and revolting from a Chitty, and no 
filial enthusiasm can induce me honestly to say that my 
father is a good landlord. He has preferred his affection 
for individuals to his duties to the community. It is not, my 
friends, a question whether a handful of farmers like your¬ 
selves go to the workhouse or not. It is a consumer’s ques¬ 
tion. Do you produce the maximum of corn to the con¬ 
sumer ? 

“ With respect to myself,” continued the orator, warm¬ 
ing, as the cold he had engendered in his audience became 
more freezingly felt—“with respect to myself, I do not 
deny that, owing to the accident of training for a very faulty 
and contracted course of education, I have obtained what 
are called ‘ honors’at the University of Cambridge; but 


KEl^ELM ClIlLLmcLY. 


39 


you must not regard that fact as a promise of any worth in 
my future passage through life. Some of the most useless 
persons—especially narrow-minded and bigoted—have ac¬ 
quired far higher honors at the university than have fallen 
to my lot. 

“ I thank you no less for the civil things you have said 
of me and my family ; but I shall endeavor to walk to that 
grave to which we are all bound with a tranquil indifference 
as to what people may say of me in so short a journey. And 
the sooner, my friends, we get to our journey’s end, the 
better our chance of escaping a great many pains, troubles, 
sins, and diseases. So that when I drink to your good 
healths, you must feel that in reality I wish you an early 
deliverance from the ills to which flesh is exposed, and 
which so generally increase with our years, that good health 
is scarcely compatible with the decaying faculties of old 
age. Gentlemen, your good healths ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The morning after these birthday rejoicings, Sir Peter 
and Lady Chillingly held a long consultation on the pecu¬ 
liarities of their heir, and the best mode of instilling into his 
mind the expediency either of entertaining more pleasing 
views, or at least of professing less unpopular sentiments— 
compatibly of course, though they did not say it, with the 
new ideas that were to govern his century. Having come to 
an agreement on this delicate subject, they went forth, arm 
in arm, in search of their heir. Kenelm seldom met them 
at breakfast. He was an early riser, and accustomed to sol¬ 
itary rambles before his parents were out of bed. 

The worthy pair found Kenelm seated on the banks of a 
trout-stream that meandered through Chillingly Park, dip¬ 
ping his line into the water, and yawning, with apparent 
relief in that operation. 

“Does fishing amuse you, my boy?” said Sir Peter 
heartily. 

“ Not in the least, sir,” answered Kenelm. 

“ Then why do you do it ? ” asked Lady Chillingly. 

“ Because I know nothing el^^e that amuses me nnore^' 



40 


KEMELM CHILLIMGLY. 


“Ah! that is it,” said Sir Peter; “the whole secret of 
Kenelm’s oddities is to be found in these words, my dear. 
he needs amusement. Voltaire says truly, ‘ amusement is 
one of the wants of man.’ And if Kenelm could be amused 
like other people, he would be like other people.” 

“ In that case,” said Kenelm, gravely, and extracting 
from the water a small but lively trout, which settled itself 
in Lady Chillingly’s lap—“ in that case I would rather not 
be amused. I have no interest in the absurdities of other 
people. The instinct of self-preservation compels me to 
have some interest in my own.” 

“ Kenelm, sir,” exclaimed Lady Chillingly, with an ani¬ 
mation into which her tranquil ladyship was very rarely 
betrayed, “take away that horrid damp thing! Put down 
your rod and attend to what your father says. Your strange 
conduct gives us cause of serious anxiety.” 

Kenelm unhooked the trout, deposited the fish in his 
basket, and raising his large eyes to his father’s face, said, 
“ What is there in my conduct that occasions you displea¬ 
sure ? ” 

“Not displeasure, Kenelm,” said Sir Peter, kindly, “but 
anxiety ; your mother has hit upon the right word. You 
see, my dear son, it is my wish that you should distinguish 
yourself in the world. You might represent this county, as 
your ancestors have done before. I had looked forward to 
the proceedings of yesterday as an admirable occasion for 
your introduction to your future constituents. Oratory is 
the talent most appreciated in a free country, and why 
should you not be an orator ? Demosthenes says that de¬ 
livery, delivery, delivery, is the art of oratory ; and your 
delivery is excellent, graceful, self-possessed, classical.” 

“ Pardon me, my dear father, Demosthenes does not 
say delivery, nor action, as the word is commonly rendered ; 
he says, ‘ acting or stage-play ’— vrroxpicn^ ; the art by which 
a man delivers a speech in a feigned character—whence we 
get the word hypocrisy. Hypocrisy, hypocrisy, hypocrisy! 
is, according to Demosthenes, the triple art of the orator. 
Do you wish me to become triply a hypocrite ? ” 

“ Kenelm, I am ashamed of you. You know as well as 
I do that it is only by metaphor that you can twist the word 
ascribed to the great Athenian into the sense of hypocrisy. 
But assuming it, as you say, to mean not delivery, but act¬ 
ing, I understand why your debut as an orator was not suc¬ 
cessful. Your delivery, was excellent, your acting defective. 


k'EM ELM CHILLINGLY. 


41 


An orator should please, conciliate, persuade, prepossess. 
You did the reverse of all this ; and though you produced 
a great effect, the effect was so decidedly to your disadvan¬ 
tage, that it would have lost you an election on any hustings 
in England.'* 

“Am I to understand, my dear father,” said Kenelm, in 
the mournful and compassionate tones with which a pious 
minister of the Church reproves some abandoned and hoary 
sinner—“am I to understand that you would commend to 
your son the adoption of deliberate falsehood for the gain 
of a selfish advantage ?” 

“Deliberate falsehood ! you impertinent puppy !” 

“ Puppy ! ” repeated Kenelm, not indignantly but mus¬ 
ingly—“ puppy !—a well-bred puppy takes after its parents.” 

Sir Peter burst out laughing. 

Lady Chillingly rose with dignity, shook her gown, un¬ 
folded her parasol, and stalked away speechless. 

“ Now, look you, Kenelm,” said Sir Peter, as soon as he 
had.composed himself. “ These quips and humors of yours 
are amusing enough to an eccentric man like myself, but 
they will not do for the world ; and how at your age, and 
with the rare advantages you have had in an early introduc¬ 
tion to the best intellectual society, under the guidance of a 
tutor acquainted with the new ideas which' are to influence 
the conduct of statesmen, you could have made so silly a 
speech as you did yesterday, I cannot understand.” 

“ My dear father, allow me to assure you that the ideas 
I expressed are the new ideas most in vogue—ideas ex¬ 
pressed in still plainer, or, if you prefer the epithet, still 
sillier terms than I employed. You will find them instilled 
into the public mind by ‘The Londoner,’ and by most intel¬ 
lectual journals of a liheral character.” 

“ Kenelm, Kenelm, such ideas would turn the world 
topsy-turvy.” 

“New ideas always do tend to turn old ideas topsy-turvy. 
And the world, after all, is only an idea, which is turned 
topsy-turvy with every successive century.” 

“You make me sick of the word ideas. Leave off your 
metaphysics and study real life.” 

“ It is real life which I did study under Mr. Welby. He 
is the Archimandrite of Realism. It is sham life which you 
wish me to study. To oblige you I am willing to com¬ 
mence it. T daresay it is very pleasant. Real life is not; 
on the contrary—dull.” And Kenelm yawned again. 


42 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Flave you no young friends among your fellow-colle* 
gians ? ” 

“ Friends ! certainly not, sir. But I believe I have some 
enemies, who answer the same purpose as friends, only 
they don’t hurt one so much.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you lived alone at Cam¬ 
bridge ? ” 

“ No, I lived a good deal with Aristophanes, and a lit¬ 
tle with Conic Sections and Hydrostatics.” 

“Books. Dry company.” 

“ More innocent, at least, than moist company.” 

“ Did you ever get drunk, sir?” 

“ Drunk ! I tried to do so once with the young compan¬ 
ions whom you would commend to me as friends. I don’t 
think I succeeded, but I woke with a headache. Real life 
at college abounds with headache.” 

“ Kenelm, my boy, one thing is clear—you must travel.” 

“As you please, sir. Marcus Antoninus says that it is 
all one to a stone whether it be thrown upwards or down¬ 
wards. When shall I start ? ” 

“Very soon. Of course, there are preparations to 
make ; you should have a travelling companion. I don’t 
mean a tutor—you are too clever and too steady to need 
one—but a pleasant, sensible, well-mannered young person 
of your own age.” 

“ My own age—male or female ? ” 

Sir Peter tried hard to frown. The utmost he could do 
was to reply gravely, “ Female ! If I said you were too 
steady to need a tutor, it was because you have hitherto 
seemed less likely to be led out of your way by female al¬ 
lurements. Among your other studies may I inquire if 
you have included that which no man has ever yet thor¬ 
oughly mastered—the study of woman ? ” 

“Certainly. Do you object to my catching another trout? ” 

“Trout be-blest, or the reverse. So you have studied 

woman. I should never have thought it. Where and when 
did you commence that department of science ? ” 

“ When ? ever since I was ten years old. Where ? first 
in your own house, then at college. Hush!—a bite ! ” And 
another trout left its native element and alighted on Sir 
Peter’s nose, whence it was solemnly transferred to the bas¬ 
ket. 

“ At ten years old, and in my own house. That flaunt* 
ing hussy Jane, the under-housemaid-” 


KENELM CrilLLINGL Y. 


43 


“Jane! No, sir. Pamela, Miss Byron, Clarissa— 
fe'males in Richardson, who, according to Dr. Johnson, 
‘taught the passions to move at the coinmaiid of virtue.’ 1 
trust for your sake that Dr. Johnson did not err in that 
assertion ; for I found all th€se females at night in your own 
private apartments.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Sir Peter, “ that’s all.” 

“ All I remember at ten years old,” replied Kenelm. 

“ And at Mr. Welby’s or at college,” proceeded Sir Peter, 
timorously, “was your acquaintance with females of the 
same kind ? ” 

Kenelm shook his head. “ Much worse ; they were very 
naughty indeed at college.” 

“ I should think so, with such a lot of young fellows run¬ 
ning after them.” 

“Very few fellows run after the females I mean—rather 
avoid them.” 

“ So much the better.” 

“ No, my father, so much the worse ; without an intimate 
knowledge of those females there is little use going to col¬ 
lege at all.” 

“ Explain yourself.” 

“ Every one who receives a classical education is intro¬ 
duced into their society—Pyrrha and Lydia, Glycera and 
Corinna, and many more all of the same sort; and then the 
females in Aristophanes, what do you say to them, sir ? ” 

“ Is it only females who lived two thousand or three thou¬ 
sand years ago, or more probably never lived at all, whose 
intimacy you have cultivated ? Have you never admired 
any real women ?” 

“ Real women ! I never met one. Never met a woman 
who was not a sham, a sham from the moment she is told to 
be pretty-behaved, conceal her sentiments, and look fibs 
when she does not speak them. But if I am to learn sham 
life, I suppose I must put up with sham women.” 

“ Have you been crossed in love, that you speak so bit¬ 
terly of the sex ? ” 

“I don’t speak bitterly of the sex. Examine any woman 
on her oath, and she’ll own she is a sham, always has been, 
and always will be, and is proud of it.” 

“ I am glad your mother is not by to hear you. You will 
think differently one of these days. Meanwhile, to turn to 
the other sex, is there no young man of your own rank with 
whom you would like to travel ? ” 


44 


KEl^ELM CHILLWGLY. 


“Certainly not. I hate quarrelling.” 

“ As you please. But you cannot go quite alone ; I will 
find you a good travelling servant. I must write to town to¬ 
day about your preparations, and in another week or so I 
hope all will be ready. Your allowance will be whatever 
you like to fix it at ; you have never been extravagant, and 
—boy—I love you. Amuse yourself, enjoy yourself, and 
come back cured of your oddities, but preserving your 
honor.” 

Sir Peter bent down and kissed his son’s brow. Kenelm 
Was moved ; he rose, put his arm round his father’s shoulder, 
and lovingly said, in an undertone, “ If ever I am tempted 
to do a base thing, may I remember whose son I am—I 
shall be safe then.” He withdrew his arm as he said this, 
and took his solitary way along the banks of the stream, for' 
getful of rod and line. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The young man continued to skirt the side of the stream, 
until he reached the boundary pale of the park. Here, 
placed on a rough grass mound, some former proprietor, of 
a social temperament, had built a kind of belvedere, so as 
to command a cheerful view of the high-road below. Me¬ 
chanically the heir of the Chillinglys ascended the mound, 
seated himself within the belvedere, and leant his chin on 
his hand in a thoughtful attitude. It was rarely that the 
building was honored by a human visitor—its habitual oc¬ 
cupants were spiders. • Of those industrious insects it was a 
well-populated colony. Their webs, darkened with dust, 
and ornamented with the wings, and legs, and skeletons ot 
many an unfortunate traveller, clung thick to angle and win¬ 
dow-sill, festooned the rickety table on which the young 
man leant his elbow, and described geometrical circles and 
rhomboids between the gaping rails that formed the backs 
of venerable chairs. One large black spider—who was prob¬ 
ably the oldest inhabitant, and held possession of the best 
place by the window, ready to offer perfidious welcome to 
every winged itinerant who might be tempted to turn aside 
from the high-road for the sake of a little cool and repose— 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


45 


rushed from its innermost penetralia at the entrance of Ken- 
elm, and remained motionless in the centre of its meshes, 
staring at him. It did not seem quite sure whether the 
stranger was too big or not. 

“ It is a wonderful proof of the wisdom of Providence,” 
said Kenelm, “that whenever any large number of its crea¬ 
tures forms a community or class, a secret element of dis¬ 
union enters into the hearts of the individuals forming the 
congregation, and prevents their co-operating heartily and 
effectually for their common interest. ‘The fleas would 
have dragged me out of bed if they had been unanimous,’ 
said the great Mr. Curran ; and there can be no doubt that 
if all the spiders in this commonwealth would unite to attack 
me in a body, I should fall a victim to their combined nip¬ 
pers. But spiders, though inhabiting the same region, con¬ 
stituting the same race, animated by the same instincts, do 
not combine even against a butterfly; each seeks his own 
special advantage, and not that of the community at large. 
And how completely the life of each thing resembles a cir¬ 
cle In this respect, that it can never touch another circle at 
more than one point. Nay, I doubt if it quite touches it 
even there,—there is a space between every atom—self is 
always selfish; and yet there are eminent masters in the 
Academe of New Ideas who wish to make us believe that all 
the working classes of a civilized world could merge every dif¬ 
ference of race, creed, intellect, individual propensities and 
interests, into the construction of a single web, stocked as a 
larder in common ! ” Here the soliloquist came to a dead 
stop, and, leaning out of the window, contemplated the high¬ 
road. It was a very fine high-road—straight and level, kept 
in excellent order by turn-pikes at every eight miles. A 
pleasant greensward bordered it on either side, and under the 
belvedere the benevolence of some mediaeval Chillingly had 
placed a little drinking-fountain for the refreshment of way¬ 
farers. Close to the fountain stood a rude stone bench, over¬ 
shadowed by a large willow, and commanding from the high 
table-ground on which it was placed a wide view of corn¬ 
fields, meadows, and distant hills, suffused in the mellow light 
of the summer sun. Along that road there came successively 
a wagon filled with passengers seated on straw—an old wo¬ 
man, a pretty girl, two children ; then a stout farmer going 
to market in his dog-cart ; then three flies carrying fares to 
the nearest railway station ; then a handsome young man on 
horseback, a handsome young lady by his side, a groom be- 


46 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


hind. It was easy to see that the young man and young lady 
were lovers. See it in his ardent looks and serious lips parted 
but for whispers only to be heard by her ;—see it in her down¬ 
cast eyes and heightened color. “ ‘Alas! regardless of theii 
doom,’ ” muttered Kenelm, “what trouble those‘little victims’ 
are preparing for themselves and their progeny! Would I 
could lend them Decimus Roach’s ‘ Approach to the An¬ 
gels ’! ” The road now for some minutes became solitary 
and still, when there was heard to the right a sprightly sort 
of carol, half sung, half recited, in musical voice, with a 
singularly clear enunciation, so that the words reached Ken- 
elm’s ear distinctly. They ran thus : 

“ Black Karl looked forth from his cottage-door, 

He looked on the forest green ; 

And down the path, with his dogs before, 

Came the Ritter of Neirestein ; 

Singing—singing—lustily singing, 

Down the path, with his dogs before. 

Came the Ritter of Neirestein.” 

At a voice so English, attuned to a strain so Germanic, Ken¬ 
elm pricked up attentive ears, and, turning his eyes down 
the road, beheld, emerging from the shade of beeches that 
overhung the park pales, a figure that did not altogether har¬ 
monize with the idea of a Ritter of Neirestein. It was, 
nevertheless, a picturesque figure enough. The man was 
attired in a somewhat threadbare suit of Lincoln green, with 
a high-crowned Tyrolese hat ; a knapsack was slung behind 
his shoulders, and he was attended by a white Pomeranian 
dog, evidently foot-sore, but doing his best to appear pro¬ 
ficient in the chase by limping some yards in advance of his 
master and sniffing into the hedges for rats and mice and 
such small deer. 

By the time the pedestrian had reached to the close of 
his refrain he had gained the fountain, and greeted it with 
an exclamation of pleasure. Slipping the knapsack from 
his shoulder, he filled the iron ladle attached to the basin. 
He then called to the dog by the name of Max, and held the 
ladle for him to drink. Not till the animal had satisfied his 
thirst did the master assuage his own. Then lifting his hat 
and bathing his temples and face, the pedestrian seated 
himself on the bench, and the dog nestled on the turf at his 
feet. After a little pause the wayfarer began again, though 
iti a lower and slower tone, to chant his refrain, and pro- 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


47 


ceeded, with abrupt snatches, to link the verse on to 
another stanza. It was evident that he was either endeavor¬ 
ing to remember or to invent, and it seemed rather like the 
latter and more laborious operation of the mind. 

u ‘ Why on foot, why on foot, Ritter Karl,’ quoth he, 

* And not on thy palfrey gray ? ’ 

Palfrey gray—hum—^gray. 

‘ The run of ill luck was too strong for me, 

And has galloped my steed away.’ 

That will do—good! ” 

Good indeed ! He is easily satisfied,” mutte*'ed Kenelm. 
“ But such pedestrians don’t pass the road every day. Let 
us talk to him.” So saying, he slipped quietly out of the 
window, descended the mound, and, letting himself into the 
road by a screened wicket-gate, took his noiseless stand be¬ 
hind the wayfarer and beneath the bowery willow. 

The man had now sunk into silence. Perhaps he had 
tired himself of rhymes ; or perhaps the mechanism of verse- 
making had been replaced by that kind of sentiment, or that 
kind of reverie, which is common to the temperaments of 
those who indulge in verse-making. But the loveliness of 
the scene before him had caught his eye and fixed it into an 
intent gaze upon wooded landscapes stretching farther and 
farther to the range of hills on which the heaven seemed to 
rest. 

I should like to hear the rest of that German ballad,” 
said a voice, abruptly. 

The wayfarer started, and, turning round, presented to 
Kenelm’s view a countenance in the ripest noon of manhood, 
with locks and beard of a deep rich auburn, bright blue eyes, 
and a wonderful nameless charm both of feature and ex¬ 
pression, very cheerful, very frank, and not without a certain 
nobleness of character which seemed to exact respect. 

“ I beg your pardon for my interruption,” said Kenelm, 
lifting his hat; “ but I overheard you reciting; and though 
I suppose your verses are a translation from the German, I 
don’t remember anything like them in such popular German 
poets as I happen to have read.” 

“ It is not a translation, sir,” replied the itinerant. “ I 
was only trying to string together sgme ideas that came intQ 
my head this fine morning/’ 


48 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


You are a poet, then ?” said Kenelm, seating himself c n 
the bench. 

“ I dare not say poet. I am a verse-maker.” 

“ Sir, 1 know there is a distinction. Many poets of the 
present day, considered very good, are uncommonly bad 
verse-makers. For my part, I could more readily imagine 
them to be good poets if they did not make verses at alL 
But can I not hear the rest of the ballad ?” 

“Alas! the rest of the ballad is not yet made. It is 
rather a long subject, and my flights are very brief.” 

“That is much in their favor, and very unlike the poetry 
in fashion. You do not belong, I think, to this neighbor¬ 
hood. Are you and your dog travelling far ? ” 

“ It is my holiday time, and I ramble on through the 
summer. I am travelling far, for I travel till September. 
Life amid summer fields is a very joyous thing.” 

“Is it indeed?” said Kenelm, with much naivete. “I 
should have thought that, long before September, you would 
have got very much bored with the fields and the dog and 
)^ourself altogether. But, to be sure, you have the resource 
of verse-making, and that seems a very pleasant and absorb¬ 
ing occupation to those who practise it—from our old friend 
Horace, kneading labored Alcaics into honey in his summer 
rambles among the watered woodlands of Tibur, to Cardinal 
Richelieu, employing himself on French rhymes in the in¬ 
tervals between chopping off noblemen’s heads. It does not 
seem to signify much whether the verses be good or bad, 
so far as the pleasure of the verse-maker himself is con¬ 
cerned ; for Richelieu was as much charmed with his occu¬ 
pation as Horace was, and his verses were certainly not 
Horatian.” 

“ Surely at your age, sir, and with your evident educa¬ 
tion-” 

“ Say culture; that’s the word in fashion nowadays.” 

“—Well, your evident culture—you must have made 
verses. 

“ Latin verses—yes—and occasionally Greek. I was 
obliged to do so at school. It did not amuse me.” 

“ Try English.” 

Kenelm shook his head. “Not I. Every cobbler should 
stick to his last.” 

“Well, put aside the verse-making: don’t you find a 
sensible enjoyment in those solitary summer walks, Avlien 
you have Nature all to yourself—enjoyment in marking all 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


49 


the mobile, evanescent changes in her face — her laugh, her 
smile, her tears, her very frown ?” 

“ Assuming that by Nature you mean a mechanical series 
of external phenomena, I object to your speaking of a ma¬ 
chinery as if it were a person of the feminine gender —her 
laugh, her smile, etc. As well talk of the laugh and smile 
of a steam-engine. But to descend to common-sense. I 
grant there is some pleasure in solitary rambles in fine 
weather and amid varying scenery. You say that it is a 
holiday excursion that you are enjoying : I presume, there¬ 
fore, that you have some practical occupation which con¬ 
sumes the time that you do not devote to a holiday ? ” 

“Yes; I am not altogether an idler. I work sometimes, 
though not so hard as I ought. ‘Life is earnest,’ as the poet 
says. But I and my dog are rested now, and as I have still 
a long walk before me, I must wish you good-day.” 

“ I fear,” said Kenelm, with a grave and sweet politeness 
of tone and manner, which he could command at times, and 
which, in its difference from merely conventional urbanity, 
was not without fascination—“ I fear that I have offended 
you by a question that must have seemed to you inquisitive 
—perhaps impertinent ; accept my excuse ; it is very rarely 
that I meet any one who interests me ; and you do.” As he 
spoke he offered his hand, which the wayfarer shook very 
cordially. 

“ I should be a churl indeed if your question could have 
given me offence. It is rather perhaps I who am guilty of 
impertinence, if I take advantage of my seniority in years, 
and tender you a counsel. Do not despise Nature, or re¬ 
gard her as a steam-engine ; you will find in her a very 
agreeable and conversable friend, if you will cultivate her 
intimacy. And I don’t know a better mode of doing so at 
your age, and with your strong limbs, than putting a knap¬ 
sack on your shoulders, and turning foot-traveller, like my¬ 
self.” 

“ Sir, I thank you for your counsel ; and I trust we may 
meet again, and interchange ideas as to the thing you call 
Nature—a thing which science and art never appear to see 
with the same eyes. If to an artist Nature has a soul, why, 
so has a steam-engine. Art gifts with soul all matter that 
it contemplates ; science turns all that is already gifted with 
soul into matter. Good-day, sir.” 

Here Kenelm turned back abruptly, and the traveller 
went his way, silently and thoughtfully. 

3 


5a 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Kenelm retraced his steps homeward under the shade of 
his “ old hereditary trees.” One might have thought his 
path along the greenswards, and by the side of the babbling 
rivulet, was pleasanter and more conducive to peaceful 
thoughts than the broad, dusty thoroughfare along which 
plodded the wanderer he had quitted. But the man ad¬ 
dicted to reverie forms his own landscapes and colors his 
own skies. 

“ It is,” soliloquized Kenelm Chillingly, “ a strange 
yearning I have long felt—to get out of myself—to get, as 
it were, into another man’s skin—and have a little variety of 
thought and emotion. One’s self is always the same self ; 
and that is why I yawn so often. But if I can’t get into an¬ 
other man’s skin, the next best thing is to get as unlike 
myself as I possibly can do. Let me see what is myself. My¬ 
self is Kenelm Chillingly, son and heir to a rich gentleman. 
But a fellow with a knapsack on his back, sleeping at way- 
side inns, is not at all like Kenelm Chillingly—especially if 
he is very short of money, and may come to want a dinner. 
Perhaps that sort of fellow may take a livelier view of 
things : he can’t take a duller one. Courage, Myself,—you 
and I can but try.” 

For the next two days Kenelm was observed to be un¬ 
usually pleasant. He yawned much less frequently, walked 
with his father, played piquet with his mother, was more 
like other people. Sir Peter was charmed ; he ascribed this 
happy change to the preparations he was making for Ken- 
elm’s travelling in style. The proud father was in active 
correspondence with his great London friends, seeking let¬ 
ters of introduction to Kenelm for all the courts of Europe. 
Portmanteaus, with every modern convenience, were or¬ 
dered ; an experienced courier, who could talk all languages 
—and cook French dishes if required—was invited to name 
his terms. In short, every arrangement worthy a young 
patrician’s entrance into the great world was in rapid pro¬ 
gress, when suddenly Kenelm Chillingly disappeared, leav¬ 
ing behind him on Sir Peter’s library-table the following 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


5 * 


“My very dear Father, —Obedient to your desire, I depart in search 
of real life and real persons, or of the best imitations of them. Forgive me, 

I beseech you, if I commence that search in my own way. I have seen enough 
of ladies and gentlemen for the present—they must be all very much alike in 
every part of the world. You desired me to be amused. I go to try if that 
be possible. Ladies and gentlemen are not amusing ; the more lady-like or 
gentleman-like they are, the more insipid I find them. My dear father, I go 
in quest of adventure like Amadis of Gaul, like Don Quixote, like Gil Bias, 
like Roderick Random—like, in short, the only real people seeking^-eal life— 
the people who never existed except in books. I go on foot, I go alone. I 
have provided myself with a lai'ger amount of money than I ought to spend, 
because every man must buy experience, and the first fees are heavy. In fact, 

I have put fifty pounds into my pocket-book and into my purse five sovereigns 
and seventeen shillings. This sum ought to last me a year, but I daresay in¬ 
experience will do me out of it in a month, so we will count it as nothing. 
Since you have asked me to fix my own allowance, I will beg you kindly to 
commence it this day in advance, by an order to your banker to cash my 
cheques to the amount of five pounds, and to the same amount monthly— 
viz., at the rate of sixty pounds a year. With that sum I can’t starve, and if 
I want more it may be amusing to work for it. Pray don’t send after me, or 
institute inquiries, or disturb the household, and set all the neighborhood 
talking, by any mention either of my project or of your surprise at it. I will 
not fail to write to you from time to time. 

“ You will judge best what to say to my dear mother. If you tell her 
the truth, which of course I should do did I tell her anything, my request is 
virtually frustrated, and I shall be the talk of the county. You, I know, 
don’t think telling fibs is immoral, when it happens to be convenient, as it 
would be in this case, 

“ I expect to be absent a year or eighteen months ; if I prolong my travels 
it shall be in the way you proposed. I will then take my place in polite 
society, call upon you to pay all expenses, and fib on my own account to any 
extent required by that world of fiction which is peopled by illusions and 
governed by shams. 

“ Heaven bless you, my dear father, and be quite sure that if I get into 
any trouble requiring a friend, it is to you I shall turn. As yet I have no 
other friend on earth, and with prudence and good-luck I may escape the in¬ 
fliction of any other friend.—Yours ever affectionately, Kenelm. 

“ P,S. —Dear father, I open my letter in your library to say again ‘ Bless 
you,’ and to tell you how fondly I kissed your old beaver gloves, which I 
found on the table.” 

When Sir Peter came to that postscript he took off his 
spectacles and wiped them—they were very moist. 

Then he fell into a profound meditation. Sir Peter was, 
as I have said, a learned man ; he was also in some things a 
sensible man ; and he had a strong sympathy with the hum¬ 
orous side of his son’s crotchety character. What was to be 
said to I,ady Chillingly ? That matron was quite guiltless 
of any crime which should deprive her of a husband’s con¬ 
fidence in a matter relating to her only son. She was a vir- 


5^ 


A’EXELM CHILLIXGLY. 


tiious matron — morals irreproachable—manners dignified, 
and sh^-cart^nt'h. Any one seeing her for the first time 
would intuitively say. “ Your ladyship.” Was this a matron 
to be suppressed in any well-ordered domestic circle ? Sir 
Peter’s conscience loudly answered, “ No ; ” but when, put¬ 
ting conscience into his pocket, he regarded the question 
at issue as a man of the world. Sir Peter felt that to com¬ 
municate the contents of his son's letter to Lady Chillingly 
would be the foolishest thing he could possibly do. Did she. 
know that Kenelm had absconded with the family dignity 
invested in his ver\’ name, no marital authority, short of 
such abuses of power as constitute the offence of cruelty in 
a wife’s action for divorce from social board and nuptial 
bed, could prevent Lady Chillingly from summoning all the 
grooms, sending them in all directions, with strict orders to 
bring back the runaway dead or alive — the walls would be 
placarded with handbills, " Strayed from his home.” etc, — 
the police would be telegraphing private instructions from 
town to town — the scandal would stick to Kenelm Chillingly 
for life, accompanied with vague hints of criminal propen¬ 
sities and insane hallucinations — he would be ever after¬ 
wards pointed out as “ the max who had disappeared.” 
And to disappear and to turn up again, instead of being 
murdered, is the most hateful thing a man can do : all the 
newspapers bark at him. *’ Tray, Blanche, Sweetheart, and 
all : ” strict explanations of the unseemly fact of his safe 
existence are demanded in the name of public decorum, and 
no explanations are accepted — it is life saved, character lost 
Sir Peter seized his hat and walked forth, not to delib¬ 
erate whether to fib or not to fib to the wife of his bosom, 
but to consider what kind of fib would the most quickly 
sink into the bosom of his wife. 

A few turns to and fro the terrace sufficed for the con¬ 
ception and maturing of the fib selected : a proof that Sir 
Peter was a practised fibber. He re-entered the house, 
passed into her ladyship’s habitual sitting-room, and said, 
with careless gayety, “ My old friend the Duke of Clareville 
is just setting off on a tour to Switzerland with his family. 
His youngest daughter. Lady Jane, is a prettv girl, and 
would not be a bad match for Kenelm. ’ 

** Lady Jane, the youngest daughter with fair hair, whom 
I saw last as a xery charming child, nursing a lovelv doll 
presented to her by the Empress Eugenie. A good match 
Indeed for Kenelm,’* 


51 




V 


K^KELil CmLliyGLY, 

“ I am glad jou agree with me. Would it not be a favor¬ 
able step towards that alliance, and an excellent thing for 
Kenelm generally, if he were to visit the Continent as one 
of the Duke’s travelling party ? ” 

“ Of course it would. 

“ Then you approve what I have done — the Ehike starts 
the day after to-morrow, and I have packed Kenelm off 
to town, with a letter to my old friend. You will excuse 
all leave-taking. You know that though the best of sons he 
is an odd fellow ; and seeing that I had talked him into it, 
I struck while the iron was hot, and sent him off by the ex¬ 
press at nine o’clock this morning, for fear that if I allowed 
any delay he would talk himself out of it.” 

“ Do you mean to say Kenelm is actually gone ? Good 
g^racious! ” 

Sir Peter stole softly from the room, and, summoning his 
valet, said, ‘‘ 1 have sent Mr. Chillingly to London. Pack 
up the clothes he is likely to want, so that he can have them 
sent at once, whenever he writes for them.” 

And thus, by a judicious violation of truth on the part of 
his father, thdt exemplary truth-teller Kenelm Chillingly 
saved the honor of his house and his own reputation from 
the breath of scandal and the inquisition of the police. He 
was not “the man who hah disappeared.” 



BOOK II. 


CHAPTER I. 

Kenelm Chillingly had quitted the paternal home al 
daybreak, before any of the household was astir. 

“ Unquestionably,” said he, as he walked along the soli¬ 
tary lanes—“ unquestionably I begin the world as poets be¬ 
gin poetry, an imitator and a plagiarist. 1 am imitating an 
itinerant verse-maker, as, no doubt, he began by imitating 
some other maker of verse. But if there be anything in 
me, it will work itself out in original form. And, after 
all, the verse-maker is not the inventor of ideas. Adventure 
on foot is a notion that remounts to the age of fable. Her¬ 
cules, for instance,—that was the way in which he got to 
heaven, as a foot-traveller. How solitary the world is at this 
hour ! Is it not for that reason that this is of all hours the 
most beautiful ? ” 

Here he paused, and looked around and above. It was the 
very height of summer. The sun was just rising over gentle 
sloping uplands. All the dews on the hedgerows sparkled. 
There was not a cloud in the heavens. Uprose from the 
green blades of the corn a solitary skylark. His voice woke 
up the other birds. A few minutes more, and the joyous 
concert began. Kenelm reverently doffed his hat and bowed 
his head in mute homage and thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER 11. 

About nine o’clock Kenelm entered a town some twelve 
miles distant from his father’s house, and towards which he 
had designedly made his way, because in that town he was 
scarcely if at all known by sight, and he might there make 
the purchases he required without attracting any marked ob¬ 
servation. He had selected ^or his travelling costume a 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


55 


shooting-dress, as the simplest and least likely to belong to 
his rank as a gentleman. But still in its very cut there was 
an air of distinction, and every laborer he had met on the 
way had touched his hat to him. Besides, who wears a 
shooting-dress in the middle of June, or a shooting-dress at 
all, unless he be either a gamekeeper or a gentleman 
licensed to shoot ? 

Kenelm entered a large store-shop for ready-made clothes, 
and purchased a suit, such as might be worn on Sundays by 
a small country yeoman or tenant-farmer of a petty holding, 
—a stout coarse broadcloth upper garment, half coat, half 
jacket, with waistcoat to match, strong corduroy trousers, a 
smart Belcher neckcloth, with a small stock of linen and 
woollen socks in harmony with the other raiment. He bought 
also a leathern knapsack, just big enough to contain this 
wardrobe, and a couple of books, which, with his combs and 
brushes, he had brought away in his pockets. For among 
all his trunks at home there was no knapsack. 

These purchases made and paid for, he passed quickly 
through the town, and stopped at a humble inn at the out¬ 
skirts, to which he was attracted by the notice, “ Refresh¬ 
ment for man and beast.” He entered a little sanded 
parlor, which at that hour he had all to himself, called for 
breakfast, and devoured the best part of a fourpenny loaf, 
with a couple of hard eggs. 

Thus recruited, he again sallied forth, and deviating into 
a thick wood by the roadside, he exchanged the habiliments 
with which he had left home for those he had purchased, and 
by the help of one or two big stones sunk the relinquished 
garments into a small but deep pool which he was lucky 
enough to find in a bush-grown dell much haunted by snipes 
in the winter. 

“ Now,” said Kenelm, “ I really begin to think I have 
got out of myself. I am in another man’s skin ; for what, 
after all, iS a skin but a soul’s clothing, and what is clothing 
but a decenter skin ? Of its own natural skin every civi¬ 
lized soul is ashamed. It is the height of impropriety for 
any one but the lowest kind of savage to show it. If the 
purest soul now existent upon earth, the Pope of Rome’s 
or the Archbishop of Canterbury’s, were to pass down the 
Strand with the skin which nature gave to it bare to the 
eye, it would be brought up before a magistrate, prosecuted 
by the Society for the Suppression of Vice, and committed 
to jail as a public nuisance. 


56 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


“ Decidedly I am now in another man’s skin. Kenelm 
Chillingly, I no longer 

Remain 

Yours faithfully; 

But am, 

With profound consideration, 

Your obedient humble Servant.” 

With light step and elated crest, the wanderer, thus trans-, 
formed, sprang from the wood into the dusty thorough¬ 
fare. 

He had travelled on for about an hour, meeting but few 
other passengers, when he heard to the right a loud shrill 
young voice, “ Help, help !—I will not go—I tell you, I will 
not ! ” Just before him stood, by a high five-barred gate, a 
pensive gray cob attached to a neat-looking gig. The bridle 
was loose on the cob’s neck. The animal was evidently 
accustomed to stand quietly when ordered to do so, and glad 
of the opportunity. 

The cries, “ Help, help ! ” were renewed, mingled with 
louder tones in a rougher voice, tones of wrath and menace. 
Evidently these sounds did not come from the cob. Kenelm 
looked over the gate, and saw a few yards distant, in a grass- 
field, a well-dressed boy struggling violently against a stout 
middle-aged man who was rudely hauling him along by the 
arm. 

The chivalry natural to a namesake of the valiant Sir 
Kenelm Digby was instantly aroused. He vamlted over the 
gate, seized the man by the collar, and exclaimed, “ For 
shame, what are you doing to that poor boy ?—let him go ! ” 

“ Why the devil do you interfere ? ” cried the stout man 
—his eyes glaring and his lips foaming with rage. “ Ah. 
are you the villain ?—yes, no doubt of it. I’ll give it to you, 
jackanapes ! ” And still grasping the boy with one hand, 
with the other the stout man darted a blow at Kenelm, from 
which nothing less than the practised pugilistic skill and 
natural alertness of the youth thus suddenly assaulted could 
have saved his eyes and nose. As it was, the stout man 
had the worst of it ; the blow was parried, returned with a 
dexterous manoeuvre of Kenelm’s right foot in Cornish 
fashion, and procumbit humibos, —the stout man lay sprawling 
on his back. The boy, thus released, seized hold of Kenelm 
by the arm, and hurrying him along up the field, cried, 

“ Come, come before he gets up ! save me ! save me ! ” Ere 


KEl^ELM CmlLlNGLY. 


ii 

he had recovered his own surprise, the boy had dragged 
Kenelm to the gate, and jumped into the gig, sobbing forth, 
“ Get in, get in. I can’t drive ; get in, and drive — you. 
Quick ! quick ! ” 

“ But,” began Kenelm. 

“Get in, or I shall go mad.” Kenelm obeyed, the boy 
gave him the reins, and seizing the whip himself, applied it 
lustily to the cob. On sprang the cob. “ Stop — stop— 
stop, thief !—villain !—Halloa ! —thieves—thieves — thieves ! 
—stop ! ” cried a voice behind. Kenelm involuntarily turned 
his head and beheld the stout man perched upon the gate 
and gesticulating furiously. It was but a glimpse ; again 
the whip was plied, the cob frantically broke into a gallop, 
th^ gig jolted and bumped and swerved, and it was not till 
they had put a good mile between themselves and the stout 
man that Kenelm succeeded in obtaining possession of the 
whip, and calming the cob into a rational trot. 

“Young gentleman,” then said Kenelm, “perhaps you 
will have the goodness to explain.” 

“ By-and-by ; get on, that’s a good fellow; you shall be 
well paid for it—well and handsomely.” 

Quoth Kenelm, gravely, “ I know that in real life pay¬ 
ment and service naturally go together. But we will put 
aside the payment till you tell me what is to be the service. 
And first, whither am I to drive you ? We are coming to a 
place where three roads meet; which of the three shall 1 
take ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; there is a finger-post. I want to 
get to—but it is a secret ; you’ll not betray me. Promise 
—swear.” 

“ I don’t swear except when I am in a passion, which. I 
am sorry to say, is very seldom ; and I don’t promise till I 
know what I promise ; neither do I go on driving runaway 
boys in other men’s gigs unless I know that I am taking 
them to a safe place, where their papas and mammas can 
get at them.” 

“ I have no papa, no mamma,” said the boy dolefully, 
and with quivering lips. 

“ Poor boy ! I suppose that burly brute is your school¬ 
master, and you are running away home for fear of a flog¬ 
ging.” 

The boy burst out laughing ; a pretty silvery merry laugh, 
it thrilled through Kenelm Chillingly. “ No, he would not 
flog me ; he is not a schoolmaster; he is worse than that.” 

3* 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


S8 


Is it possible ? What is he ? ” 

“An uncle.” 

“ Hum ! uncles are proverbial for cruelty ; were so in the 
classical days, and Richard III. was the only scholar in his 
family.” 

“Eh ! classical, and Richard III. ! ” said the boy, startled, 
and looking attentively at the pensive driver. “ Who are 
you ? you talk like a gentleman.” 

“I beg pardon. I’ll not do so again if I can help it.” 
“ Decidedly,” thought Kenelm, “ I am beginning to be 
amused. What a blessing it is to get into another man’s 
skin, and another man’s gig too ! ” Aloud, “ Here we are at 
the finger-post. If you are running away from your uncle, 
it is time to inform me where you are running to.” 

Here the boy leaned over the gig and examined the fin> 
ger-post. Then he clapped his hands joyfully. 

“ All right ! I thought so—‘To Tor-Hadham, eighteen 
miles.’ That’s the road to Tor-Hadham.” 

“ Do you mean to say I am to drive you all that way— 
eighteen miles ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And to whom are you going ? ” 

“ I will tell you by-and-by. Do go on—do, pray. I 
can't drive—never drove in my life—or I would not ask you. 
Pray, pray, don’t desert me ! If you are a gentleman, you 
will not ; and if you are not a gentleman, I have got 
in my purse, which you shall have when I am safe at Tor- 
Hadham. Dont hesitate ; my whole life is at stake ! ” And 
the boy began once more to sob. 

Kenelm directed the pony’s head towards Tor-Hadham, 
and the boy ceased to sob. 

“You are a good, dear fellow,” said the boy, wiping his 
eyes. “ I am afraid I am taking you very much out of your 
road.” 

“ I have no road in particular, and would as soon go to 
Tor-Hadham, which I have never seen, as anywhere else. 
I am but a wanderer on the face of the earth.” 

“ Have you lost your papa and mamma too ? Why, you 
are not much older than I am.” 

“Little gentleman,” said Kenelm, gravely, “I am just 
of age ; and you, I suppose, are about fourteen.” 

“What fun ! ” cried the boy, abruptly. “ Isn’t it fum ?” 

“ It will not be fun if I am sentenced to penal servitude 
for stealing your uncle’s gip^ and robbing his little nephew 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


59 


of ;j£*io. By the by, that choleric relation of yours meant 
to knock down somebody else when he struck at me. He 
asked, ‘Are you the villain ?” Pray who is the villain? he 
is evidently in your confidence.” 

“Villain ! he is the most honorable, high-minded-But 

no matter now ; I’ll introduce you to him when we reach 
Tor-Hadham Whip that pony; he is crawling.” 

“ It is up-hill; a good man spares his beast.” 

No art and no eloquence could extort from his young 
companion any further explanation than Kenelm had yet 
received; and indeed, as the journey advanced, and they 
approached their destination, both parties sank into silence. 
Kenelm was seriously considering that his first day’s experi¬ 
ence of real life in the skin of another had placed in some 
peril his own. He had knocked down a man evidently re¬ 
spectable and well-to-do, had carried off that man’s nephew, 
and made free with that man’s goods and chattels—/>., his 
gig and horse. All this might be explained satisfactorily to 
a justice of the peace, but how ? By returning to his former 
skin ; by avowing himself to be Kenelm Chillingly, a dis¬ 
tinguished university medalist, heir to no ignoble name and 
some 0,000 a year. But then what a scandal! he who 
abhorred scandal; in vulgar parlance, what a “ row ! ” he who 
denied that the very word “ row ” was sanctioned by any 
classic authorities in the English language. He would have 
to explain how he came to be found disguised, carefully dis¬ 
guised, in garments such as no baronet’s eldest son—even 
though that baronet be the least ancestral man of mark whom 
it suits the convenience of a First Minister to recommend to 
the Sovereign for exaltation over the rank of Mister—was 
ever beheld in, unless he had taken flight to the gold-dig¬ 
gings. Was this a position in which the heir of the Chill- 
inglys, a distinguished family, whose coat of arms dated 
from the earliest authenticated period of English heraldry 
under Edward HI. as Three Fishes azur^ could be placed 
without grievous slur on the cold and ancient blood of the 
Three Fishes ? 

And then individually to himself, Kenelm, irrespectively 
of the Three Fishes. What a humiliation ! He had put 
aside his respected father’s deliberate preparations for his 
entrance into real life ; he had perversely chosen his own 
walk on his own responsibility ; and here, before half the 
first day was over, what an infernal scrape he had walked 
himself into ! And what was his excuse ? A wretched little 


66 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


boy, sobbing and chuckling by turns, and yet who wa,s cleVet 
enough to twist Kenelin Chillingly round his finger; twist 
him— 2 i man who thought himself so much wiser than his 
, parents—a man who had gained honors at the University 
■—a man of the gravest temperament—a man of so nicely a 
critical turn of mind that there was not a law of art or 
nature in which he did not detect a flaw,—that he should 
get himself into this mess was, to say the least of it, an 
uncomfortable reflection. 

The boy himself, as Kenelm glanced at him from time to 
time, became impish and Will-of-the-Wisp-ish. Sometimes 
he laughed to himself loudly, sometimes he wept to himself 
quietly; sometimes, neither laughing nor weeping, he 
seemed absorbed in reflection. Twice as they came nearer 
to the town of Tor-Hadham, Kenelm nudged the boy, and 
said, “My boy, I must talk with you and twice the boy, 
withdrawing his arm from the nudge, had answered dream- 
]y— 

“ Hush ! I am thinking.” 

And so they entered the town of Tor-Hadham ; the cob 
very much done up. 


CHAPTER HI. 

“ Now, young sir,” said Kenelm, in a tone calm, but 
peremptory—“now we are in the town, where am I to 
take you ? and wherever it be, there to say good-bye.” 

“ No, not good-bye. Stay with me a little bit. I begin to 
feel frightened, and I am so friendless ; ” and the boy, who 
had before resented the slightest nudge on the part of 
Kenelm, now wound his arm into Kenelm’s, and clung to 
him caressingly. 

I don’t know what my readers have hitherto thought 
of Kenelm Chillingly, but amid all the curves and windings 
of his whimsical humor there was one way that went straight 
to his heart—you had only to be weaker than himself, and 
ask his protection. 

He turned round abruptly ; he forgot all the strangeness 
of his position, and replied, “Little brute that you are. I’ll 
be shot if I forsake you if in trouble. But some compassion 
is also due to the cob—for his sake say where we are to stop.” 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


6i 


rnt sure I can’t say ; I never was here before. Let us 
go to a nice quiet inn. Drive slowly—we’ll look out for one.” 

Tor-Hadham was a large town, not nominally the capital 
of the county, but in point of trade, and bustle, and life, 
virtually the capital. The straight street, through which 
the cob went as slowly as if he had been drawing a Tri¬ 
umphal Car up the Sacred Hill, presented an animated ap¬ 
pearance. The shops had handsome facades and plate-glass 
windows ; the pavements exhibited a lively concourse, evi¬ 
dently not merely of business, but of pleasure, for a large 
proportion of the passers-by was composed of the fair sex, 
smartly dressed, many of them young, and some pretty. In 
fact, a regiment of Her Majesty’s—the Hussars had been 
sent into the town two days before, and between the officers 
of that fortunate regiment, and the fair sex in that hospitable 
town, there was a natural emulation which should make the 
greater number of slain and wounded. The advent of these 
heroes, professional subtracters from hostile, and multipliers 
of friendly, populations, gave a stimulus to the caterers for 
those amusements which bring young folks together—arch¬ 
ery-meetings, rifle-shootings, concerts, balls, announced in 
bills attached to boards and walls, and exposed at shop- 
windows. 

The boy looked eagerly forth from the gig, scanning 
especially these advertisements, till at length he uttered an 
excited exclamation, “Ah, I was right—there it is ! ” 

“There what is?” asked Kenelm. “The Inn?” His 
companion did not answer, but Kenelm following the boy’s 
eyes perceived an immense hand-bill: 

“To-morrow Night Theatre opens, 

Richard HI. Mr. Compton.” 

“ Do just ask where the theatre is,” said the boy, in a 
whisper, turning away his head. 

Kenelm stopped the cob, made the inquiry, and was di¬ 
rected to take the next turning to the right. In a few min¬ 
utes the compo portico of an ugly dilapidated building, 
dedicated to the Dramatic Muses, presented itself at the 
angle of a dreary deserted lane. The walls were placarded 
with play-bills, in which the name of Compton stood forth 
as gigantic as capitals could make it. The boy drew a sigh. 
“ Now,” said he, “ let us look out for an inn near here—the 
nearest.” 


62 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


No inn, however, beyond the rank of a small and ques¬ 
tionable-looking public-house, was apparent, until at a dis¬ 
tance somewhat remote from the theatre, and in a quaint, 
old-fashioned, deserted square, a neat newly-whitewashed 
house displayed upon its frontispiece, in large black letters 
of funereal aspect, “Temperance Hotel.” 

“ Stop,” said the boy ; “ don’t you think that would suit 
us ? it looks quiet.” 

“ Could not look more quiet if it were a tombstone,” re¬ 
plied Kenelm. 

The boy put his hand upon the reins and stopped the 
cob. The cob was in that condition that the slightest touch 
sufficed to stop him, though he turned his head somewhat 
ruefully, as if in doubt whether hay and corn would be 
within the regulations of a Temperance Hotel. Kenelm 
descended and entered the house. A tidy woman emerged 
from a sort of glass cupboard which constituted the bar, 
minus the comforting drinks associated with the beau ideal 
of a bar, but which displayed instead two large decanters of 
cold water with tumblers a discretion, and sundry plates of 
thin biscuits and sponge-cakes. This tidy woman politely 
inquired what was his “pleasure.” 

“ Pleasure,” answered Kenelm, witli his usual gravity, 
“ is not the word I should myself have chosen. But could 
you oblige my horse—I mean that horse—with a stall and a 
feed of oats, and that young gentleman and myself with a 
private room and a dinner ? ” 

“Dinner !” echoed the hostess—“dinner!” 

“ A thousand pardons, ma’am. But if the word ‘ dinner ’ 
shock you I retract it, and would say instead, ‘something to 
eat and drink.’ ” 

“ Drink ! This is strictly a Temperance Hotel, sir.” 

“ Oh, if you don’t eat and drink here,” exclaimed Ken¬ 
elm, fiercely, for he was famished, “ I wish you good-morn¬ 
ing.” 

“Stay a bit, sir. We do eat and drink here. But we are 
very simple folks. We allow no fermented liquors.” 

“Not even a glass of beer?” 

“ Only ginger-beer. Alcohols are strictly forbidden. 
We have tea, and coffee, and milk. But most of our cus¬ 
tomers prefer the pure liquid. As for eating, sir, —anything 
you order, in reason.” 

Kenelm shook his head and was retreating, when the boy, 
who had sprung from the gig and overheard the conversa- 


KENELM CHlLLlNGLy: 


63 


tion, cried, petulantly, “ What does it signify ? Who wants 
fermented liquors ? Water will do very well. And as for 
dinner,—anything convenient. Please, ma’am, show us into 
a private room ; I am so tired.” The last words were said 
in a caressing manner, and so prettily, that the hostess at 
once changed her tone, and muttering, “ poor boy ! ” and, in 
a still more subdued mutter, “ what a pretty face he has ! ” 
nodded, and led the way up a very clean old-fashioned stair¬ 
case. 

“ But the horse and gig—where are they to go ?” said 
Kenelm, with a pang of conscience on reflecting how ill 
treated hitherto had been both horse and owner. 

“ Oh, as for the horse and gig, sir, you will find Juke’s 
livery-stables a few yards farther down. We don’t take in 
horses ourselves—our customers seldom keep them ; but you 
will find the best of accommodation at Jukes’s.” 

Kenelm conducted the cob to the livery-stables thus indi¬ 
cated, and waited to see him walked about to cool, well 
rubbed down, and made comfortable over half a peck of oats 
—for Kenelm Chillingly was a humane man to the brute 
creation—and then, in a state of ravenous appetite, returned 
to the Temperance Hotel, and was ushered into a small 
drawing-room, with a small bit of carpet in the centre, six 
small chairs with cane seats, prints on the walls descriptive 
of the various effects of intoxicating liquors upon sundry 
specimens of mankind—some resembling ghosts, others 
fiends, and all with a general aspect of beggary and perdi¬ 
tion, contrasted by Happy-Family pictures—smiling wives, 
portly husbands, rosy infants, emblematic of the beatified 
condition of members of the Temperance Society. 

A table with a spotless cloth, and knives and forks for 
two, chiefly, however, attracted Kenelm’s attention. 

The boy was standing by the window, seemingly gazing 
on a small aquarium which was there placed, and contained 
the usual variety of small fishes, reptiles, and insects, enjoy¬ 
ing the pleasures of Temperance in its native element, in¬ 
cluding, of course, an occasional meal upon each other. 

“What are they going to give us to eat ?” inquired Ken¬ 
elm. “ It must be ready by this time, I should think.” 

Here he gave a brisk tug at the bell-pull. The boy 
advanced from the window, and a? he did so Kenelm was 
struck with the grace of his bearing and the improvement 
in his looks, now that he was without his hat, and rest and 
ablution had refreshed from heat and dust the delicate bloom 


64 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


of his complexion. There was no doubt about it that he 
was an exceedingly pretty boy, and if he lived to be a man 
would make many a lady’s heart ache. It was with a cer¬ 
tain air of gracious superiority such as is seldom warranted 
by superior rank if it be less than royal, and chiefly becomes 
a marked seniority in years, that this young gentleman, ap¬ 
proaching the solemn heir of the Chillinglys, held out his 
hand and said : 

“ Sir, you have behaved extremely well, and I thank you 
very much.” 

“Your Royal Highness is condescending to say so,” 
replied Kenelm Chillingly, bowing low ; “ but have you 
ordered dinner? and what are they going to give us ? No 
one seems to answer the bell here. As it is a Temperance 
Hotel, probably all the servants are drunk.” 

“ Why should they be drunk at a Temperance Hotel ? ” 
Why! because, as a general rule, people who flagrantly 
pretend to anything are the reverse of that which they pre¬ 
tend to. A man who sets up for a saint is sure to be a sin¬ 
ner, and a man who boasts that he is a sinner is sure to have 
some feeble, maudlin, snivelling bit of saintship about him 
which is enough to make him a humbug. Masculine hon¬ 
esty, whether it be saint-like or sinner-like, does not label 
itself either saint or sinner. Fancy St. Augustin dabelling 
himself saint, or Robert Burns sinner ; and therefore, 
though, little boy, you have probably not read the Poems 
of Robert Burns, and have certainly not read the Confes¬ 
sions of St. Augustin, take my word for it, that both those 
personages were very good fellows ; and with a little differ¬ 
ence of training and experience, Burns might have written 
the Confessions, and Augustin the Poems. Powers above 1 
I am starving. What did you order for dinner, and when 
is it to appear ? ” 

The boy, who had opened to an enormous width a nat- 
urally large pair of hazel eyes, while his tall companion in 
fustian trousers and Belcher neckcloth spoke thus patroniz-. 
ingly of Robert Burns and St. Augustin^ now replied with 
rather a deprecatory and shame-faced aspect, “ I am sorry 
I was not thinking of dinner. I was not so mindful of you 
as T ought to have been. The landlady asked me what we 
would have. T said, ‘What you like;’ and the landlady 
muttered something about ”-(here the boy hesitated.) 

“ Yes. About what ? Mutton-chop? 

“ No. Cauliflowers and rice-pudding. 


KEN ELM C HILLING L Y. 


65 


Kenelm Chillingly never swore, never raged. Where 
ruder beings of human mould swore or raged, he vented 
displeasure in an expression of countenance so pathetically 
melancholic and lugubrious that it would have melted the 
heart of an Hyrcanian tiger. He turned his countenance 
now on the boy, and murmuring “Cauliflower!—Starva¬ 
tion 1 ” sank into one of the cane-bottomed chairs, and 
added quietly, “ so much for human gratitude ! ” 

The boy was evidently smitten to the heart by the bitter 
sweetness of this reproach. There were almost tears in his 
voice, as he said, falteringly, “ Pray forgive me, I was un¬ 
grateful. ril run down and see what there is ; ” and, suit¬ 
ing the action to the word, he disappeared. 

Kenelm remained motionless ; in fact he was plunged into 
one of those reveries, or rather absorptions of inward and 
spiritual being, into which it is said that the consciousness 
of the Indian Dervish can be, by prolonged fasting, pre- 
ternaturally resolved. The appetite of all men of powerful 
muscular development is of a nature far exceeding the 
properties of any reasonable number of cauliflowers and rice- 
puddings to satisfy. Witness Hercules himself, whose crav¬ 
ings for substantial nourishment were the standing joke of 
the classic poets. I don’t know that Kenelm Chillingly 
would have beaten the Theban Hercules either in fighting 
or in eating ; but when he wanted to fight or when he 
wanted to eat, Hercules would have had to put forth all his 
strength not to be beaten. 

After ten minutes’ absence, the boy came back radiant. 
He tapped Kenelm on the shoulder, and said playfully, “ I 
made them cut a whole loin into chops, besides the cauli¬ 
flower, and such a big rice-pudding, and eggs and bacon 
too. Cheer up ! it will be served in a minute.” 

“ A—h ! ” said Kenelm. 

“ They are good people ; they did not mean to stint you ; 
but most of their customers, it seems, live upon vegetables 
and farinaceous food. There is a society here formed upon 
that principle ; the landlady says they are philosophers ! ” 

At the word “ philosophers ” Kenelm’s crest rose as that 
of a practised hunter at the cry of “Yoiks! Tally-ho!” 
“ Philosophers ! ” said he—“ philosophers indeed ! O igno¬ 
ramuses who do not even know the structure of the human 
tooth ! Look you, little boy, if nothing were left on this 
earth of the present race of man, as we are assured upon 
gr^at authority will be the case one of these days—and a 


66 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


mighty good riddance it will be—if nothing, I say, of man 
were left except fossils of his teeth and his thumbs, a phil¬ 
osopher of that superior race which will succeed to man 
would at once see in those relics all his characteristics and 
all his history; would say, comparing his thumb with the 
talons of an eagle, the claws of a tiger, the hoof of a horse, 
tlie owner of that thumb must have been lord over creatures 
with talons and claws and hoofs. You may say the monkey 
tribe has thumbs. True ; but compare an ape’s thumb with 
a man’s,—could the biggest ape’s thumb have built West¬ 
minster Abbey ? But even thumbs are trivial evidence 
of man as compared with his teeth. Look at his teeth ! ”—- 
here Kenelm expanded his jaws from ear to ear and dis¬ 
played semicircles of ivory, so perfect for the purpose of 
mastication that che most artistic dentist might have de¬ 
spaired of his power to imitate them—“ look, I say, at his 
teeth ! ” The boy involuntary recoiled. “ Are the teeth 
those of a miserable cauliflower-eater ? or is it purely by 
farinaceous food that the proprietor of teeth like man’s 
obtains the rank of the sovereign destroyer of creation } 
No, little boy, no,” continued Kenelm, closing his jaws, but 
advancing upon the infant, who at each stride receded to¬ 
wards the aquarium—“ no ; man is the master of the world, 
because of all created beings he devours the greatest variety 
and the greatest number of created things. His teeth evince 
that man can live upon every soil from the torrid to the 
frozen zone, because man can eat everything that other 
creatures cannot eat. And the formation of his teeth proves 
it. A tiger can eat a deer—so can man ; but a tiger can’t 
eat an eel—man can. An elephant can eat cauliflowers and 
rice-pudding—so can man ; but an elephant can’t eat a beef¬ 
steak—man can. In sum, man can live everywhere, because 
he can eat anything, thanks to his dental formation!” con¬ 
cluded Kenelm, making a prodigious stride towards the boy. 
“ Man, when everything else fails him, eats his own species.” 

“ Don’t; you frighten me,” said the boy. “Aha ! ” clap¬ 
ping his hands with a sensation of gleeful relief, “ here come 
the mutton-chops! ” 

A wonderfully clean, well-washed, indeed well-washed- 
out, middle-aged parlor-maid now appeared, dish in hand. 
Putting the dish on the table and taking off the cover, the 
handmaiden said civilly, though frigidly, like one who lived 
upon salad and cold water, “ Mistress is sorry to have kept 
you waiting, but she thought you were Vegetarians,” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


67 


After helping his young friend to a mutton-chop, Kenelm 
helped himself, and replied, gravely, “ Tell your mistress that 
if she had only given us vegetables, I should have eaten you. 
Tell her that though man is partially graminivorous, he is 
principally carnivorous. Tell her that though a swine eats 
cabbages and suchlike, yet where a swine can get a baby, it 
eats the baby. Tell her,” continued Kenelm (now at his 
third chop), “ that there is no animal that in digestive organs 
more resembles man than a swine. Ask her if there is any 
baby in the house ; if so, it would be sale for the baby to 
send up some more chops.” 

As the cutest observer could rarely be quite sure when 
Kenelm Chillingly was in jest or in earnest, the parlor-maid 
paused a moment and attempted a pale smile. Kenelm lifted 
his dark eyes, unspeakably sad and profound, and said, 
mournfully, “ I should be so sorry for the baby. Bring the 
chops ! ” The parlor-maid vanished. The boy laid down 
his knife and fork, and looked fixedly and inquisitively on 
Kenelm. Kenelm, unheeding the look, placed the last chop 
on the boy’s plate. 

“No more,” cried the boy, impulsively, and returned the 
chop to the dish. “ I have dined—I have had enough.” 

“Little boy, you lie,” said Kenelm ; “you have not had 
enough to keep body and soul together. Eat that chop, or 
1 shall thrash you ; whatever I say, I do.” 

Somehow or other the boy felt quelled ; he ate the chop 
in silence, again looked at Kenelm’s face, and said to him¬ 
self, “ I am afraid.” 

The parlor-maid here entered with a fresh supply of 
chops and a dish of bacon and eggs, soon followed by a rice¬ 
pudding baked in a tin dish, and of size sufficient to have 
nourished a charity school. When the repast was finished, 
Kenelm seemed to forget the dangerous properties of the 
carnivorous animal; and stretching himself indolently out, 
appeared to be as innocently ruminative as the most domes¬ 
tic of animals graminivorous. 

Then said the boy, rather timidly, “ May I ask you another 
favor ? ” 

“ Is it to knock down another uncle, or to steal another 
gig and cob ? ” 

“No, it is very simple : it is merely to find out the ad¬ 
dress of a friend here ; and when found to give him a note 
from me.” 

“ Dogs the commission press ? ‘ After dinner rest awhile,’ 


68 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


saith the proverb ; and proverbs are so wise that no one can 
guess the author of them. They are supposed to be frag¬ 
ments of the philosophy of the antediluvians—came to us 
packed up in the ark.” 

“ Really, indeed,” said the boy, seriously. “How interest¬ 
ing ! No, my commission does not press for an hour or so. 
Do you think, sir, they had any drama before the Deluge ?” 

“ Drama ! not a doubt of it. Men who lived one or two 
thousand years had time to invent and improve everything; 
and a play could have had its natural length then. It would 
not have been necessary to crowd the whole history of Mac¬ 
beth, from his youth to his old age, into an absurd epitome 
of three hours. One cannot trace a touch of real human 
nature in any actor’s delineation of that very interesting 
Scotchman, because the actor always comes on the stage as 
if he were the same age when he murdered Duncan, and 
when, in his sere and yellow leaf, he was lopped off by Mac¬ 
duff.” 

“ Do you i.nink Macbeth was young when he murdered 
Duncan ?” 

“ Certainly. No man ever commits a first crime of vio¬ 
lent nature, such as murder, after thirty ; if he begins before, 
he may go on up to any age. But youth is the season for 
commencing those wrong calculations which belong to ir¬ 
rational hope and the sense of physical power. You thus 
read in the newspapers that the persons who murder their 
sweathearts are generally from two to six and twenty ; and 
persons who murder from other motives than love—that is, 
from revenge, avarice, or ambition—are generally about 
twenty-eight—lago’s age. Twenty-eight is the usual close 
of the active season for getting rid of one’s fellow-creatures 
—a prize-fighter falls off after that age. I take it that Mac¬ 
beth was about twenty-eight when he murdered Duncan, 
and from about fifty-four to sixty when he began to whine 
about missing the comforts of old age. But can any audi¬ 
ence understand that difference of years in seeing a three- 
hours’ play ; or does any actor ever pretend to impress it on 
the audience, and appear as twenty-eight in the first act and 
a sexagenarian in the fifth ? ” 

“ I never thought of that,” said the boy, evidently inter¬ 
ested. “ But I never saw Macbeth. I have seen Richard III. 
—is not that nice ? Don’t you dote on the Play ? I do. 
What a glorious life an actor’s must be ! ” 

Kenelm, who h^d been hithertg rather talking to himself 




KEMELM CHtLimcLY, 6 $ 

than to his youthful companion, here roused his attention, 
looked on the boy intently, and said : 

“ I see you are stage-stricken. You have run away from 
home in order to turn player, and I should not wonder if this 
note you want me to give is for the manager of the theatre 
or one of his company.” 

The young face that encountered Kenelm’s dark eye be¬ 
came very flushed, but set and defiant in its expression. 

“ And what if it were—would not you give it ? ” 

“ What! help a child of your age, run away from his 
home, to go upon the stage against the consent of his rela¬ 
tions—certainly not.” 

“ I am not a child ; but that has nothing to do with it. 
I don’t want to go on the stage, at all events without the 
consent of the person who has a right to dictate my actions. 
My note is not to the manager of the theatre, nor to one ©f 
his company, but it is to a gentleman who condescends to 
act here for a few nights—a thorough gentleman—a great 
actor—my friend, the only friend I have in the world. I say 
frankly I have run away from home so that he may have that 
note, and if you will not give it some one else will! ” 

The boy had risen while he spoke, and he stood erect 
beside the recumbent Kenelm, his lips quivering, his eyes 
suffused with suppressed tears, but his whole aspect resolute 
and determined. Evidently, if he did not get his own way 
in this world, it would not be for want of will. 

“ I will take your note,” said Kenelm. 

“ There it is ; give it into the hands of the person it is 
addressed to,—Mr. Herbert Compton.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Kenelm took his way to the theatre, and inquired of tiic 
doorkeeper for Mr. Herbert Compton. That functional 
replied, “ Mr. Compton does not ?,ct to-night, and is not in 
the house.” 

“ Where does he lodge ?” 

The doorkeeper pointed to a grocer’s shop on the other 
side of the way, and said, tersely, “ There, private door- 
knock and ring.” 

Kenelm did as he was directed. A slatternly maid-ser 



10 


KEMELM CHILtJj^GLV. 


A^ant opened the door, and, in answer to his interrogatory, 
said that Mr. Compton was at home, but at supper. 

“ I am sorry to disturb him,” said Kenelm, raising liis 
voice, for he heard a clatter of knives and plates within a 
room hard by at his left, “ but my business requires to see 
him forthwith ; ” and, pushing the maid aside, he entered at 
once the adjoining banquet-hall. 

Before a savory stew smelling strongly of onions sat a 
man very much at his ease, without coat or neckcloth, a de¬ 
cidedly handsome man—his hair cut short and his face close¬ 
ly shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs and beards of all 
hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone ; 
opposite to him sat a lady, who might be a few years young¬ 
er, of a somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with 
good stage features and a profusion of blonde ringlets. 

“ Mr. Compton, I presume,” said Kenelm, with a solemn 
bow. 

“ My name is Compton : any message from the theatre ? 
or what do you want with me ?” 

“ I?—nothing!” replied Kenelm ;and then, deepening his 
naturally mournful voice into tones ominous and tragic, con¬ 
tinued—“ By whom you are wanted let this explain ; ” there¬ 
with he placed in Mr. Compton’s hand the letter with which 
he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his 
fingers in the pose of Talma as Julius Caesar, added, 
dis-tu^ Brute V" 

Whether u was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring j 
delivery, or uTroypto-t?, of the messenger, or the sight of the \ 
handwriting on the address of the missive, Mr. Compton’s 
countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested irresolute, 
as if not daring to open the letter. 

“Never mind me, dear,” said the lady with blonde ring¬ 
lets, in a tone of stinging affability ; “ read your billet-doux ; 
don’t keep the young man waiting, love 1 ” 

“ Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense ! billet-doux^ indeed ! more 
likely a bill from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a me ment, 
my dear. Follow me, sir,” and rising, still with shirt-: K eves 
uncovered, he quitted the room, closing the door after him 
motioned Kenelm into a small parlor on the opposite side 
of the passage, and by the light of a suspended gas-lamp ran 
his eye hastily over the letter, v^^hich, though it seemed very 
short, drew from him sundry ‘Exclamations. “ Good 
Heavens! how very absurd! what’s to be done?” Then, 
thrusting the letter into his trousers-pocket, fixed upon 




KEMELM CHlLLmcLY, 




Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon dropp¬ 
ed before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer. 

“ Are you in the confidence of the writer of this letter?’* 
asked Mr. Compton, rather confusedly. 

“ I am not the confidant of the writer,” answered Kenelm. 
** but for the time being I am the protector.” 

“Protector ?” 

“ Protector.” 

Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and, this time 
fully realizing the gladiatorial development of that dark 
stranger’s physical form, he grew many shades paler, and 
involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull. 

After a short pause, he said, “ I am requested to call on 
the writer. If I do so, may I understand that the interview 
will be strictly private ?” 

“ So far as I am concerned, yes—on the condition that no 
attempt be made to withdraw the writer from the house.” 

“ Certainly not—certainly not ; quite the contrary,” ex¬ 
claimed Mr. Compton, with genuine animation. “ Say I 
will call in half an hour.” 

“I will give your message,” said Kenelm, with a polite 
inclination of his head ; “and pray pardon me if I remind 
you that I styled myself the protector of your correspondent, 
and if the slightest advantage be taken of that correspondent’s 
youth and inexperience, or the smallest encouragement be 
given to plans of abduction from home and friends, the stage 
will lose an ornament, and Herbert Compton vanish from 
the scene.” 

With those words Kenelm left the player standing aghast. 
Gaining the street-door, a lad with a bandbox ran against 
him and was nearly upset. 

“Stupid,” cried the lad, “can’t you see where you are 
going ? Give this to Mrs. Compton.” 

“ I should deserve the title you give if I did for nothing 
the business for which you are paid,” replied Kenelm, senten- 
tiously, and striding on. 


CHAPTER V. 

** I HAVE fulfilled my mission,” said Kenelm, on rejoining 
his travelling companion. “ Mr. Compton said he would be 
here in half an hour.” 



^ENELM CttlLLmCLY. 




** You saw him ? ” 

“ Of course ; I promised to give your letter into his own 
hands.” 

“ Was he alone ? *’ 

No ; at supper with his wife.” 

“ His wife ? what do you mean, sir ?—wife ! he has no 
wife.” 

“ Appearances are deceitful. At least he was with a lady 
who called him ‘ dear ’ and ‘ love ’ in as spiteful a tone of voice 
as if she had been his wife ; and as I was coming out of his 
street-door a lad who ran against me asked me to give a band- 
box to Mrs. Compton.” 

The boy turned as white as death, staggered back a few 
steps, and dropped into a chair. 

A suspicion which, during his absence, had suggested 
itself to Kenelm’s inquiring mind, now took strong confirma¬ 
tion. He approached softly, drew a chair close to the com¬ 
panion whom fate had forced upon him, and said, in a gentle 
whisper: 

“ This is no boy’s agitation. If you have been deceived 
or misled, and I can in any way advise or aid you, count on 
me as women under the circumstances count on men and 
gentlemen.” 

The boy started to his feet, and paced the room with dis¬ 
ordered steps, and a countenance working with passions 
which he attempted vainly to suppress. Suddenly arresting 
his steps, he seized Kenelm’s hand, pressed it convulsively, 
and said, in a voice struggling against a sob : 

“ I thank you—I bless you. Leave me now—I would 
be alone. Alone, too, I must face this man. There may 
be some mistake yet;—go.” 

“You will promise not to leave the house till I return ? ” 

“Yes, I promise that.” 

“ And if it be as I fear, you will then let me counsel with 
and advise you ? ” 

“ Heaven help me, if so ! Whom else should I trust to ? 
Go-go ! ” 

Kenelm once more found himself in the streets, beneath 
the mingled light of gas-lamps and the midsummer moon. 
He walked on mechanically till he reached the extremity of 
the town. There he halted, and, seating himself on " mile¬ 
stone, indulged in these meditations : 

“ Kenelm, my friend, you are in a still worse scrape than 
I thought you were an hour ago. You have evidently now 


KEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


73 


got a woman on your hands. What on earth are you to do 
with her ? A runaway woman, who, meaning to run off with 
somebody else—such are the crosses and contradictions in 
human destiny has run off with you instead. W^hat mortal 
can hope to be safe ? The last thing I thought could befall 
me when I got up this morning was that I should have any 
trouble about the other sex before the day was over. If I 
were of an arnatory temperament, the Fates might have 
some justification for leading me into this snare, but, as it 

is, those meddling old maids have none. Kenelm, my friend, 
do you think you ever can be in love ? and, if you were in 
love, do you think you could be a greater fool than you are 
now ?” 

Kenelm had not decided this knotty question in the 
conference held with himself, when a light and soft strain 
of music came upon his ear. It was but from a stringed 
instrument, and might have sounded thin and tinkling, but 
for the stillness of the night, and that peculiar addition of 
fullness which music acquires when it is borne along a 
tranquil air. Presently a voice in song was heard from 
the distance accompanying the instrument. It was a man’s 
voice, a mellow and rich voice, but Kenelm’s ear could not 
catch the words. Mechanically he moved on towards the 
quarter from which the sounds came, for Kenelm Chillingly 
had music in his soul, though he was not quite aware of 
it himself. He saw before him a patch of greensward, on 
which grew a solitary elm with a seat for wayfarers beneath 

it. From this sward the ground receded in a wide semi¬ 
circle bordered partly by shops, partly by the tea-gardens 
of a pretty cottage-like tavern. Round the tables scattered 
throughout the gardens were grouped quiet customers, evi¬ 
dently belonging to the class of small tradespeople or su¬ 
perior artisans. They had an appearance of decorous 
respectability, and were listening intently to the music. So 
were many persons at the shop-doors, and at the windows 
of upper rooms. On the sward, a little in advance of the 
tree, but beneath its shadow, stood the musician, and in that 
musician Kenelm recognized the wanderer from whose talk 
he had conceived the idea of the pedestrian excursion which 
had already brought him into a very awkward position. The 
instrument on which the singer accompanied himself was a 
guitar, and his song was evidently a love-song, though, as it 
was now drawing near to its close, Kenelm could but im¬ 
perfectly guess at its general meaning. He heard enough 


74 


Ki XELM CHlLLrXGLY. 


to perceive that its \/ords were at least free from the vuh 
garity which generally characterizes street-ballads, and were 
yet simple enough to please a very homely audience. 

When the singer ended there was no applause ; but there 
was evident sensation among the audience—a feeling as if 
something that had given a common enjoyment had ceased. 
Presently the white Pomeranian dog, who had hitherto kept 
himself out of sight under the seat of the elm-tree, advanced, 
with a small metal tray between his teeth, and, after looking 
round him deliberately as if to select whom of the audience 
should be honored with the commencement of a general 
subscription, gravely approached Kenelm, stood on his hind¬ 
legs, stared at him, and presented the tray. 

Kenelm dropped a shilling into that depository, and the 
dog, looking gratified, took his way towards the tea-gardens. 

Lifting his hat, for he was, in his way, a very polite man, 
Kenelm approached the singer, and, trusting to the altera¬ 
tion in his dress for not being recognized by a stranger who 
had only once before encountered him, he said: 

“Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. 
May I ask who composed the words ? ” 

“ They are mine,” replied the stranger. 

“ And the air ? ” 

“ Mine too.” 

“Accept my compliments. I hope you find these mani¬ 
festations of genius lucrative ?” 

The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than 
a careless glance at the rustic garb of the questioner, now 
fixed his eyes full upon Kenelm, and said, with a smile, 
“ Your voice betrays you, sir. We have met before.” 

“ True ; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though 
acquainted with your poetical gifts, suppose that you se¬ 
lected this primitive method of making them publicly 
known.” 

“Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again 
in the character of Hobnail. Hist ! let us keep each other’s 
secret. I am known hereabouts by no other designation 
than that of the ‘ Wandering Minstrel.’” 

“It is in the capacity of minstrel that I address you. If 
it be not an impertinent question, do you know any songs 
which take the other side of the case ? ” 

“ What case ? I don’t understand you, sir.” 

“ The song I heard seemed in praise of that sham called 
love. Don’t you think you could say something more new 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


75 

and more true, treating that aberration from reason with the 
contempt it deserves ?’’ 

“Not if I am to get my travelling expenses paid.” 

“ What! the folly is so popular? ” 

“ Does not your own heart tell you so ? ” 

“Not a bit of it—rather the contrary. Your audience 
at present seem folks who live by work, and can have lit¬ 
tle time for such idle phantasies—for, as it is well observed 
by Ovid, a poet who wrote much on that subject, and 
professed the most intimate acquaintance with it, ‘ Idleness 
is the parent of love.’ Can’t you sing something in praise 
of a good dinner ? Everybody who works hard has an ap¬ 
petite for food.” 

The singer again fixed on Kenelm his inquiring eye, 
but, not detecting a vestige of humor in the grave face he 
contemplated, was rather puzzled how to reply, and there¬ 
fore remained silent. 

“I perceive,” resumed Kenelm, “that my observations 
surprise you : the surprise will vanish on reflection. It has 
been said by another poet, more reflective than Ovid, ‘ that 
the world is governed by love and hunger.’ But hunger 
certainly has the lion’s share of the government ; and if a 
poet is really to do what he pretends to do—viz., represent 
nature—the greater part of his lays should be addressed to 
the stomach.” Here, warming with his subject, Kenelm fa¬ 
miliarly laid his hand upon the musician’s shoulder, and his 
voice took a tone bordering on enthusiasm. “ You will al¬ 
low that a man, in a normal condition of health, does not 
fall in love every day. But in the normal condition of 
health he is hungry every day. Nay, in those early years 
when you poets say he is most prone to love, he is so es¬ 
pecially disposed to hunger that less than three meals a 
day can scarcely satisfy his appetite. You may imprison a 
man for months, for years, nay, for his whole life—from in¬ 
fancy to any age which Sir Cornewall Lewis may allow him 
to attain—without letting him be in love at all. But if you 
shut him up for a week without putting something into his 
stomach, you will find him at the end of it as dead as a 
door-nail.” 

Here the singer, who had gradually retreated before the 
energetic advance of the orator, sank into the seat by the 
elm-tree, and said, pathetically, “ Sir, you have fairly argued 
me down. Will you please to come to the conclusion 
which you deduce from your premises ?” 


76 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


“ Simply this, that where you find one human being who 
cares about love, you will find a thousand susceptible to the 
charms of a dinner ; and if you wish to be the popular 
minnesinger or troubadour of the age, appeal to . nature, 
sir—appeal to nature ; drop all hackneyed rhapsodies 
about a rosy cheek, and strike your lyre to the theme of a 
beefsteak.” 

The dog had for some minutes regained his master’s 
side, standing on his hind-legs, with the tray, tolerably well 
filled with copper coins, between his teeth ; and now, justly 
aggrieved by the inattention which detained him in that 
artificial attitude, dropped the tray and growled at Kenelm. 

At the same time there came an impatient sound from 
the audience in the tea-garden. They wanted another song 
for their money. 

The singer rose, obedient to the summons. “ Excuse 
me, sir ; but I am called upon to-” 

“ To sing again ?” 

“Yes.” 


“And on the subject I suggest?” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ What! love again ? ” 

“ I am afraid so.” 

“ I wish you good-evening, then. You seem a well-edu¬ 
cated man—more shame to you. Perhaps we may meet 
once more in our rambles, when the question can be prop¬ 
erly argued out.” 

Kenelm lifted his hat, and turned on his heel. Before he 
reached the street, the sweet voice of the singer again smote 
his ears ; but the only word distinguishable in the distance, 
ringing out at the close of the refrain, was “love.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee,” said Kenelm. 


CHAPTER VI. 

As Kenelm regained the street dignified by the edifice 
of the Temperance Hotel, a figure, dressed picturesquely in 
a Spanish cloak, brushed hurriedly by him, but not so fast 
as to be unrecognized as the tragedian. “ Hem ! ” muttered 
Kenelm—“ I don’t think there is much triumph in that face. 
I suspect he has been scolded.” 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


77 


The boy—if Kenelm’s travelling companion is still to be 
so designated—was leaning against the mantel-piece as 
Kenelm re-entered the dining-room. There was an air of 
profound dejection about the boy’s listless attitude and in 
the drooping tearless eyes. 

“ My dear child,” said Kenelm, in the softest tones of 
his plaintive voice, “ do not honor me with any confidence 
that may be painful. But let me hope that you have dis¬ 
missed forever all thoughts of going on the stage.” 

“Yes,” was the scarce audible answer. 

“ And now only remains the quesStion, ‘ What is to be 
done ?’ ” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, and I don’t care.” 

“ Then you leave it to me to know and to care, and as¬ 
suming for the moment as a fact, that which is one of the 
greatest lies in this mendacious v/orld—namely, that all 
men are brothers, you will consider me as an elder brother, 
who will counsel and control you as he would—an impru¬ 
dent young-sister. I see very well how it is. Somehow 

or other you, having first admired Mr. Compton as Romeo 
or Richard III., made his acquaintance as Mr. Compton. 
He allowed you to believe him a single man. In a roman¬ 
tic moment you escaped from your home, with the design 
of adopting the profession of the stage and of becoming 
Mrs. Compton.” 

“ Oh,” broke out the girl, since her sex must now be de¬ 
clared,—oh,” she exclaimed, with a passionate sob, “what 
a fool I have been ! Only do not think worse of me than I 
deserve. The man did deceive me ; he did not think I 
should take him at his word, and follow him here, or his 
wife would not have appeared. I should not have known 

that he had one ; and—and-” here her voice was choked 

under her passion. 

“ But, now you have discovered the truth, let us thank 
heaven that you are saved from shame and misery. I must 
despatch a telegram to your uncle—give me his address.” 

“ No, no.” 

“There is not a ‘No’ possible in this case, my child 
Your reputation and your future must be saved. Leave m^ 
to explain all to your uncle. He is your guardian. I must 
send for him ; nay, nay, there is no option. Hate me now 
for enforcing your will, you will thank me hereafter. And 
listen, young lady ; if it does pain you to see your uncle 
and encounter his reproaches, every fault must undergo ns 




78 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


punishment A brave nature undergoes it cheerfully, as a 
part of atonement. You are brave. Submit, and in sub¬ 
mitting rejoice! ” 

There was something in Kenelm’s voice and manner at 
once so kindly and so commanding, that the wayward nature 
he addressed fairly succumbed. She gave him her uncle’s 
address, “John Bovill, Esq., Oakdale, near Westmere,” and 
after giving it, fixed her eyes mournfully upon her young 
adviser, and said, with a simple, dreary pathos, “Now, will 
you esteem me more, or rather despise me less?” 

She looked so young, nay, so childlike, as she thus spoke, 
that Kenelm felt a parental inclination to draw her on his 
lap and kiss away her tears. But he prudently conquered 
that impulse, and said, with a melancholy half-smile: 

“ If human beings despise each other for being young 
and foolish, the sooner we are exterminated by that superior 
race which is to succeed us on earth the better it will be. 
Adieu till your uncle comes.” 

“ What ! you leave me here—alone ?” 

“ Nay, if your uncle found me under the same roof, now 
that I know you are his niece, don’t you think he would 
have a right to throw me out of the window ? Allow me to 
practise for myself the prudence I preach to you. Send for 
the landlady to show you your room, shut yourself in there, 
go to bed, and don’t cry more than you can help.” 

Kenelm shouldered the knapsack he had deposited in a 
corner of the room, inquired for the telegraph office, des¬ 
patched a telegram to Mr. Bovill, obtained a bedroom at the 
Commercial Hotel, and fell asleep muttering these sensible 
words: 

“ Rochefoucauld was perfectly right when he said, ' Very 
few people would fall in love if they had not heard it so 
much talked about’ ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Kenelm Chillingly rose with the sun, according to hia 
usual custom, and took his way to the Temperance Hotel. 
All in that sober building seemed still in the arms of Mor¬ 
pheus. He turned towards the stables in which he hud left 



ICENELM CHILLINGLY. 


79 

the gray cob, and had the pleasure to see that ill-used animal 
in the healthful process of rubbing down. 

“That’s right,” said he to the ostler. “ I am glad to see 
you are so early a riser.” 

“ Why,” quoth the ostler, “ the gentleman as owns the 
pony knocked me up at two o’clock in the morning, and 
pleased enough he was to see the creature again lying down 
in the clean straw.” 

“ Oh, he has arrived at the hotel, I presume ?—a stout 
gentleman?.” 

“ Yes, stout enough ; and a passionate gentleman too. 
Came in a yellow and two posters, knocked up the Temper¬ 
ance, and then knocked up me to see for the pony, and was 
much put out as he could not get any grog at the Temper¬ 
ance.” 

“ I daresay he was. I wish he had got his grog ; it might 
have put him in better humor. Poor little thing ! ” muttered 
Kenelm, turning away ; “ I am afraid she is in for a regular 
vituperation. My turn next, I suppose. But he must be a 
good fellow to have come at once for his niece in the dead 
of the night.” 

About nine o’clock Kenelm presented himself again at 
the Temperance Hotel, inquired for Mr. Bovill, and was 
shown by the prim maid-servant into the drawing-room, 
where he found Mr. Bovill seated amicably at breakfast with 
his niece, who, of course, was still in boy’s clothing, having 
no other costume at hand. To Kenelm’s great relief, Mr. 
Bovill rose from the table with a beaming countenance, and, 
extending his hand to Kenelm, said : 

“ Sir, you are a gentleman ; sit down, sit down, and take 
breakfast.” 

Then, as soon as the maid was out of the room, the uncle 
continued : 

“ I have heard all your good conduct from this young 
simpleton. Things might have been worse, sir.” 

Kenelm bowed his head, and drew the loaf towards him 
in silence. Then, considering that some apology was due 
to his entertainer, he said : 

“ I hope you forgive me for that unfortunate mistake 
when-” 

“You knocked me down, or rather tripped me up. All 
right now. Elsie, give the gentleman a cup of tea. Pretty 
little rogue, is not she? and a good girl, in spite of her non- 
5^nse. It was all my fault letting her go to the pltiy and be 



8o 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


intimate with Miss Lockit, a stage-stricken, foolish old maid, 
who ought to have known better than lead her into all this 
trouble.” 

“ No, uncle,” cried the girl, resolutely ; “don’t blame her, 
nor any one but me.” 

Kenelm turned his dark eyes approvingly towards the girl, 
and saw that her lips were firmly set ; there was an expres¬ 
sion, not of grief nor shame, but compressed resolution in her 
countenance. But when her eyes met his they fell softly, 
and a blush mantled over her cheeks to her very forehead. 

“Ah!” said the uncle, “just like you, Elsie; always 
ready to take everybody’s fault on your own shoulders. 
Well, well, say no more about that. Now, my young friend, 
what brings you across the country tramping it on foot, eh ? 
a young man’s whim ? ” As he spoke he eyed Kenelm very 
closely, and his look was that of an intelligent man not un¬ 
accustomed to observe the faces of those he conversed with. 
In fact, a more shrewd man of business than Mr. Bovill is 
seldom met with on ’Change or in market. 

“I travel on foot to please myself, sir,” answered Ken¬ 
elm, curtly, and unconsciously set on his guard. 

“ Of course you do,” cried Mr. Bovill, with a jovial 
laugh. “ But it seems you don’t object to a chaise and 
pony whenever you can get them for nothing—ha, ha !— 
excuse me—a joke.” 

Herewith Mr. Bovill, still in excellent good-humor, 
abruptly changed the conversation to general matters— 
agricultural prospects—chance of a good harvest—corn trade 
—money market in general—politics—state of the nation. 
Kenelm felt there was an attempt to draw him out, to sound, 
to pump him, and replied only by monosyllables, generally 
significant of ignorance on the questions broached ; and at 
the close, if the philosophical heir of the Chillinglys was in 
the habit of allowing himself to be surprised he would cer¬ 
tainly have been startled when Mr. Bovill rose, slapped him 
on the shoulder, and said, in a tone of great satisfaction, 
“Just as I thought, sir ; you know nothing of these matters 
•—you are a gentleman born and bred—your clothes can’t 
disguise you, sir. Elsie was right. My dear, just leave us 
for a few minutes ; I have something to say to our young 
friend. You can get ready meanwhile to go with me.” 

Elsie left the table and walked obediently towards the 
doorway. There she halted a moment, turned round, and 
looked timidly towards Kenelm. He had naturally risen 


ICENELM CHILLINGLY. 


8| 

from his seat as she rose, and advanced some paces as if to 
open the door for her. Thus their looks encountered. He 
could not interpret that shy gaze of hers ; it was tender, it 
was deprecating, it was humble, it was pleading; a man 
accustomed to female conquests might have thought it was 
something more, something in which was the key to all. 
But that something more was an unknown tongue to Kenelm 
Chillingly. 

When the two men were alone, Mr. Bovill reseated him¬ 
self, and motioned to Kenelm to do the same. “ Now, young 
sir,” said the former, “ you and I can talk at our ease. That 
adventure of yours yesterday may be the luckiest thing that 
could happen to you.” 

“ It is sufficiently lucky if I have been of any service to 
your niece. But her own good sense would have been her 
safeguard if she had been alone, and discovered, as she 
would have done, that Mr. Compton had, knowingly or not, 
misled her to believe that he was a single man.” 

“ Hang Mr. Compton ! we have done with him. I am a 
plain man, and I come to the point. It is you who have car¬ 
ried off my niece ; it is with you that she came to this hotel. 
Now, when Elsie told me how well you had behaved, and 
that your language and manners were those of a real gentle¬ 
man, my mind was made up. I guess pretty well what you 
are ; you are a gentleman’s son—probably a college youth 
—not overburdened with cash—had a quarrel with your 
governor, and he keeps you short. Don’t interrupt me. 
Well, Elsie is a good girl and a pretty girl, and will make a 
good wife, as wives go ; and, hark ye, she has ;^20,ooo. So 
just confide in me—and if you don’t like your parents to 
know about it till the thing’s done, and they be only got to 
forgive and bless you, why, you shall marry Elsie before 
you can say Jack Robinson.” 

For the first time in his life Kenelm Chillingly was seized 
with terror—terror and consternation. His jaw dropped— 
his tongue was palsied. If hair ever stands on end, his hair 
did. At last, with superhuman effort, he gasped out the 
word, “ Marry ! ” 

“ Yes—marry. If you are a gentleman you are bound to 
it. You have compromised my niece—a respectable, vir' 
tuous girl, sir—an orphan, but not unprotected. I repeat, 
it is you who have plucked her from my very arms, and with 
violence and assault ; eloped with her ; and what would the 
world say if it knew ? Would it believe in your prudent 

4 * 


KENELM CllILLINGL K 


»2 

conduct ?—conduct only to be explained by the respect you 
felt due to your future wife. And where will you find a bet¬ 
ter ? Where will you find an uncle who will part with his 
ward and ^20,000 without asking if you have a sixpence ? 
and the girl has taken a fancy to you—I see it ; would she 
have given up that player so easily if you had not stolen her 
heart? Would you break that heart? No, young man— 
you are not a villain. Shake hands on it ! ” 

“ Mr. Bovill,” said Kenelm, recovering his wonted equa¬ 
nimity, “ I am inexpressibly flattered by the honor you pro¬ 
pose to me, and I do not deny that Miss Elsie is worthy of a 
much better man than myself. But I have inconceivable 
prejudices against the connubial state. If it be permitted 
to a member of the Established Church to cavil at any sen¬ 
tence written by St. Paul—and I think that liberty may be 
permitted to a simple layman, since eminent members of 
the clergy criticise the whole Bible as freely as if it were the 
history of Queen Elizabeth by Mr. Froude—I should demur 
at the doctrine that it is better to marry than to burn ; I 
myself should prefer burning. With these sentiments it 
would ill become any one entitled to that distinction of 
‘gentleman’ which you confer on me to lead a fellow-vic¬ 
tim to the sacrificial altar. As for any reproach attached to 
Miss Elsie, since in my telegram I directed you to ask for a 
young gentleman at this hotel, her very sex is not known in 
this place unless you divulge it. And^-” 

Here Kenelm was interrupted by a violent explosion of 
rage from the uncle. He stamped his feet ; he almost 
foamed at the mouth ; he doubled his fist, and shook it in 
Kenelm’s face. 

“Sir, you are mocking me : John Bovill is not a man to 
be jeered in this way. You shall marry the girl. I’ll not 
have her thrust back upon me to be the plague of my life 
with her whims and tantrums. You have taken her, and you 
shall keep her, or I’ll break every bone in your skin.” 

“Break them,” said Kenelm, resignedly, but at the same 
time falling back into a formidable attitude of defence, which 
cooled the pugnacity of his accuser. Mr. Bovill sank into 
his chair, and wiped his forehead. Kenelm craftily pursued 
the advantage he had gained, and in mild accents proceeded 
to reason : 

“ When you recover your habitual serenity of humor, Mr. 
Bovill, you will see how much your very excusable desire to 
secure your niece’s happiness, and, I may add, to reward 



KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


83 


what you allow to have been forbearing and well-bred con^ 
duct on my part, has hurried you into an error of judgment. 
You know nothing of me. I may be, for what you know, 
an impostor or swindler ; I may have every bad quality, and 
yet you are to be contented with my assurance, or rather 
your own assumption, that I am born a gentleman, in order 
to give me your niece and her ^20,000. This is temporary 
insanity on your part. Allow me to leave you to recover 
from your excitement.” 

“ Stop, sir,” said Mr. Bovill, in a changed and sullen 
tone ; “I am not quite the madman you think me. But I 
daresay I have been too hasty and too rough. Nevertheless 
the facts are as I have stated them, and I do not see how, as 
a man of honor, you can get off marrying my niece. The 
mistake you made in running away with her was, no doubt, 
innocent on your part ; but still there it is ; and supposing 
the case came before a jury, it would be an ugly one for you 
and your family. Marriage alone could mend it. Come, 
come, I own I was too business-like in rushing to the point 
at once, and I no longer say, ‘ Marry my niece off-hand.’ 
You have only seen her disguised and in a false position. 
Pay me a visit at Oakdale—stay with me a month—and if, 
at the end of that time, you do not like her well enough to 
propose. I’ll let you off and say no more about it.” 

While Mr. Bovill thus spoke, and Kenelm listened, 
neither saw that the door had been noiselessly opened, and 
that Elsie stood at the threshold. Now, before Kenelm 
could reply, she advanced into the middle of the room, and, 
her small figure drawn up to its fullest height, her cheeks 
glowing, her lips quivering, exclaimed : 

“ Uncle, for shame ! ” Then, addressing Kenelm in a 
sharp tone of anguish, “ Oh, do not believe I knew anything 
of this ! ” she covered her face with both hands and stood 
mute. 

All of chivalry that Kenelm had received with his bap¬ 
tismal appellation was aroused. He sprang up, and, bend¬ 
ing his knee as he drew one of her hands into his own, he 
said : 

“ I am as convinced that your uncle’s words are abhor¬ 
rent to you as I am that you are a pure-hearted and high- 
spirited woman, of whose friendship I shall be proud. We 
meet again.” Then releasing her hand, he addressed Mr. 
Bovill : “ Sir, you are unworthy the charge of your niece. 
Had you not been so, she would have committed no im- 


84 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


prudence. If she have any female relation, to that relation 
transfer your charge.” 

“ I have ! I have ! ” cried Elsie ; “ my lost mother’s 
sister—let me go to her.” 

“The woman who keeps a school!” said Mr. Bovill, 
sneeringly. 

“Why not?” asked Kenelm. 

“ She never would go there. I proposed it to her a year 
ago. The minx would not go into a school.” 

“ I will now, uncle.” 

“ Well, then, you shall at once ; and I hope you’ll be put 
on bread and water. Fool ! fool ! you have spoilt your own 
game. Mr. Chillingly, now that Miss Elsie has turned her 
back on herself, I can convince you that I am not the mad¬ 
man you thought me. I was at the festive meeting held 
when you came of age—my brother is one of your father’s 
tenants. I did not recognize your face immediately in the 
excitement of our encounter and in your change of dress r 
but in walking home it struck me that I had seen it before, 
and I knew it at once when you entered the room to-day. 
It has been a tussle between us which should beat the other. 
You have beat me ; and thanks to that idiot 1 If she had 
not put her spoke into my wheel, she should have lived to 
be ‘my lady.’ Now good-day, sir.” 

“ Mr. Bovill, you offered to shake hands : shake hands 
now, and promise me, with the good faith of one honorable 
combatant to another, that Miss Elsie shall go to her aunt 
the schoolmistress at once if she wishes it. Hark ye, my 
friend ” (this in Mr. Bovill’s ear) : “ A man can never man¬ 
age a woman. Till a woman marries, a prudent man leaves 
her to women ; when she does marry, she pnanages her hus¬ 
band, and there’s an end of it.” 

Kenelm was gone. 

“ Oh, wise young man ! ” murmured the uncle. “ Elsie, 
dear, how can we go to your aunt’s while you are in that 
dress ? ” 

Elsie started as from a trance, her eyes directed to¬ 
wards the doorway through which Kenelm had yanished. 
“ This dress,” she said, contemptuously—“ this dress—is not 
that easily altered with shops in the town ? ” 

“Gad!” muttered Mr. Bovill, “that youngster is a 
second Solomon ; and if I can’t manage Elsie, she’ll man¬ 
age a husband—whenever she gets one.” 


KENELM CHILLWGLY, 




CHAPTER VIII. 

“ By the powers that guard innocence and celibacy/ 
soliloquized Kenelm Chillingly, “but I have had a narrow 
escape ! and had that amphibious creature been in girl’s 
clothes instead of boy’s, when she intervened like the deity 
of the ancient drama, I might have plunged my armorial 
Fishes into hot water. Though, indeed, it is hard to sup¬ 
pose that a young lady head-over-ears in love with Mr. 
Compton yesterday could have consigned her affections to 
me to-day. Still she looked as if she could, which proves 
either that one is never to trust a woman’s heart, or never 
to trust a woman’s looks. Decimus Roach is right. Man 
must never relax his flight from the women, if he strives to 
achieve an ‘ Approach to the Angels. ’ ” 

These reflections were made by Kenelm Chillingly as, 
having turned his back upon the town in which such temp¬ 
tations and trials had befallen him, he took his solitary w^ay 
along a footpath that w^ound through meads and corn-fields, 
and shortened by three miles the distance to a cathedral 
town at which he proposed to rest for the night. 

He had travelled for some hours, and the sun was be¬ 
ginning to slope towards a range of blue hills in the w^est, 
when he came to the margin of a fresh rivulet, overshadowed 
by feathery willows and the quivering leaves of silvery 
Italian poplars. Tempted by the quiet and cool of this 
pleasant spot, he flung himself down on the banks, drew 
from his knapsack some crusts of bread with which he had 
wisely provided himself, and dipping them into the pure 
lymph as it rippled over its pebbly bed, enjoyed one of those 
luxurious repasts for which epicures would exchange their 
banquets in return for the appetite of youth. Then, re¬ 
clined along the bank, and crushing the wild thyme which 
grows best and sweetest in wooded coverts, provided they 
be neighbored by water, no matter whether in pool or rill, 
he resigned himself to that intermediate state between 
thought and dream-land which we call “reverie.” At a 
little distance he heard the low still sound of the mower’s 
scythe, and the air came to his brow sweet with the fra^ 
grance of new mown hay. 


86 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


He was roused by a gentle tap on the shoulder, and, turn* 
ing lazily round, saw a good-humored jovial face upon a pair 
of massive shoulders, and heard a hearty and winning voice 
say: 

“ Young man, if you are not too tired, will you lend a 
hand to get in my hay ? We are very short of hands, and I 
am afraid we shall have rain pretty soon.” 

Kenelm rose and shook himself, gravely contemplated 
the stranger, and replied, in his customary sententious fash¬ 
ion : “ Man is born to help his fellow-man—especially to 
get in hay while the sun shines. I am at your service.” 

“ That’s a good fellow, and I’m greatly obliged to you. 
You see I had counted on a gang of roving haymakers, but 
they were bought up by another farmer. This way.” And, 
leading on through a gap in the brushwood, he emerged, 
followed by Kenelm, into a large meadow, one-third of which 
was still under the scythe, the rest being occupied with 
persons of both sexes, tossing and spreading the cut grass. 
Among the latter, Kenelm, stripped to his shirt-sleeves, soon 
found himself tossing and spreading like the rest, with his 
usual melancholy resignation of mien and aspect. Though a 
little awkward at first in the use of his unfamiliar implements, 
his practice in all athletic accomplishments bestowed on him 
that invaluable quality which is termed “ handiness,” and 
he soon distinguished himself by the superior activity and 
neatness with which he performed his work. Something— 
it might be in his countenance or in the charm of his being 
a stranger—attracted the attention of the feminine section 
of haymakers, and one very pretty girl, who was nearer to 
him than the rest, attempted to commence conversation. 

“ This is new to you,” she said, smiling. 

“ Nothing is new to me,” answered Kenelm mournfully. 

But allow me to observe that to do things well you should 
only do one thing at a time. I am here to make hay, and 
not conversation.” 

“ My !” said the girl, in amazed ejaculation, and turned 
off with a toss of her pretty head. 

“ I wonder if that jade has got an uncle,” thought Ken¬ 
elm. 

The farmer, who took his share of work with the men, 
halting now and then to look round, noticed Kenelm’s vigors 
ous application with much ilpproval, and at the close of the 
day’s work shook him heartily by the hand, leaving a two- 
ehilling piece in his palm. The heir of the Chillinglys gazed 


KENELM cmiLIKGL Y, 87 

on that honorarium, and turned it over with the finger and 
thumb of the left hand. 

“ Ben’t it eno’ ? ” said the farmer, nettled. 

“ Pardon me,” answered Kenelm. “ But, to tell you 
the truth, it is the first money I ever earned by my own 
bodily labor ; and I regard it with equal curiosity and re¬ 
spect. But, if it w'ould not otfend you, I would rather that, 
instead of the money, you had offered me some supper ; for 
I have tasted nothing but bread and water since the morn 
ing.” 

“You shall have the money and supper both, my lad,” 
said the farmer, cheerily. “ And if you will stay and help 
till I have got in the hay, I daresay my good woman can find 
you a better bed than you’ll get at the village inn—if, indeed, 
you can get one there at all.” 

“You are very kind. But, before I accept your hos¬ 
pitality, excuse one question—have you any nieces about 
you ? ” 

“ Nieces ! ” echoed the farmer, mechanically thrusting his 
hands into his breeches-pockets, as if in search of something 
there—“nieces about.me! what do you mean? Be that a 
new-fangled word for coppers ? ” 

“ Not for coppers, though perhaps for brass. But I spoke 
without metaphor. I object to nieces upon abstract princi¬ 
ple, confirmed by the test of experience.” 

The farmer stared, and thought his new friend not quite so 
sound in his mental as he evidently was in his physical con¬ 
formation, but replied, with a laugh, “ Make yourself easy, 
then. I have only one niece, and she is married to an iron¬ 
monger and lives in Exeter.” 

On entering the farmhouse, Kenelm’s host conducted him 
straight into the kitchen, and cried out, in a hearty voice, to 
a comely middle-aged dame, who, with a stout girl, was in¬ 
tent on culinary operations, ‘‘ Holloa ! old woman, I have 
brought you a guest who has well earned his supper, 
for he has done the work of two, and I have promised him 
a bed.” 

The farmer’s wife turned sharply round. “ He is heart¬ 
ily welcome to supper. As to a bed,” she said, doubtfully, 
“ I don’t know.” But here her eyes settled on Kenelm ; and 
there was something in his aspect so unlike what she ex¬ 
pected to see in an itinerant haymaker, that she involuntarily 
dropped a curtsy, and resumed, with a change of tone, “ The 
gentleman shall liave the guest-room ; but it will take a little 


tCEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


time to get ready—you know, John, all the furniture is cov. 
ered up.” 

“ Well, wife, there will be leisure eno’ for that. He don't 
want to go to roost till he has supped.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Kenelm, sniffing a very agreeable 
odor. 

“ Where are the girls ? ” asked the farmer. 

“ They have been in these five minutes, and gone upstairs 
to tidy themselves.” 

“ What girls ? ” faltered Kenelm, retreating towards the 
door. “ I thought you said you had no nieces.” 

“ But I did not say I had no daughters. Why, you are 
not afraid of them, are you ? 

“ Sir,” replied Kenelm, with a polite and politic evasion 
of that question, “ if your daughters are like their mother, 
you can’t say that they are not dangerous.” 

‘‘Come,” cried the farmer, looking very much pleased, 
while his dame smiled and blushed—“come, that’s as nicely 
said as if you were canvassing the county. ’ Tis not among 
haymakers that you learned manners, I guess ; and perhaps' 
I have been making too free with my betters.” 

“What!” quoth the courteous Kenelm, “ do you mean 
to imply that you were too free with your shillings ? Apol¬ 
ogize for that, if you like, but I don’t think you’ll get back 
the shillings. I have not seen so much of this life as you 
have, but, according to my experience, when a man once 
parts with his money, whether to his betters or his worsers, 
the chances are that he’ll never see it again.” 

At this aphorism the farmer laughed ready to kill him¬ 
self, his wife chuckled, and even the maid-of-all-work 
grinned. Kenelm, preserving his unalterable gravity, said 
to himself: 

“Wit consists in the epigrammatic expression of a com¬ 
monplace truth, and the dullest remark on the worth of 
money is almost as sure of successful appreciation as the 
dullest remark on the worthlessness of women. Certainly 
I am a wit without knowing it.” 

Here the farmer touched him on the shoulder—touched 
it, did not slap it, as he would have done ten minutes before 
—and said : 

“We must not disturb the Missis, or we shqll get no sup¬ 
per. I’ll just go and give a look into the co'w-sheds. Do 
you know much about cows ? ” 

“Yes, cows produce cream and butter. The best cow? 


tCEr^ELM CHiLLINGLY. 


are those which produce at the least cost the best cream and 
butter. But how the best cream and butter can be produced 
at a price which will place them free of expense on a poor 
man’s breakfast-table, is a question to be settled by a Re¬ 
formed Parliament and a Liberal Administration. In the 
meanwhile let us not delay the supper.” 

The farmer and his guest quitted the kitchen and entered 
the farmyard. 

“ You are quite a stranger in these parts ?” 

Quite.” 

“ You don’t even know my name ? ” 

“No, except that I heard your wife call you John.” 

“ My name is John Saunderson.” 

“ Ah ! you come from the north, then ? That’s why you 
are so sensible and shrewd. ''Names that end in * son ’ are 
chiefly borne by the descendants of the Danes, to whom 
King Alfred, heaven bless him, peacefully assigned no less 
than sixteen English counties.’* And when a Dane was called 
somebody’s son, it is a sign that he was the son of a some¬ 
body.” 

“ By gosh ! I never heard that before.” 

“ If I thought you had, I should not have said it.” 

“ Now I have told you my name, what is yours ?” 

“ A wise man asks questions and a fool answers them. 
Suppose for a moment that I am not a fool.” 

Farmer Saunderson scratched his head, and looked more 
puzzled than became the descendant of a Dane settled by 
King Alfred in the north of England. 

“ Dash it,” said he at last, “ but I think you are Yorkshire 
too.” 

“Man, who is the most conceited of all animals, says 
that he alone has the prerogative of thought, and condemns 
the other animals to the meaner mechanical operation which 
he calls instinct. But as instincts are unerring and thoughts 
generally go wrong, man has not much to boast of accord¬ 
ing to his own definition. When you say you think, and 
take it for granted that I am Yorkshire, you err. I am not 
Yorkshire. Confining yourself to instinct, can you divine 
when we shall sup ? The cows you are about to visit divine 
to a moment when they shall be fed.” 

Said the farmer, recovering his sense of superiority to 
the guest whom he obliged with a supper, “ In ten minutes.” 
Then, after a pause, and in a tone of deprecation, as if he 
feared he might be thoiiglit fine, he continued : “We don’t 


90 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


sup in the kitchen. My father did, and so did I till I mai* 
ried ; but my Bess, though she’s as good a farmer’s wife aa* 
ever wore shoe-leather, was a tradesman’s daughter, and haJ 
been brought up different. You see, she was not without a 
good bit of money ; but even if she had been, I should not 
have liked her folks to say I had louvered her—so we sup in 
the parlor.” 

Quoth Kenelm, “The first consideration is to sup at all 
Supper conceded, every man is more likely to get on in life 
who would rather sup in his parlor than his kitchen. Mean¬ 
while, I see a pump ; while you go to the cows I will sta^ 
here and wash my hands of them.” 

“ Hold ; you seem a sharp fellow, and certainly no fool 
I have a son, a good smart chap, but stuck up ; crows it 
over us all; thinks no small beer of himself. You’d do me 
a service, and him too, if you’d let him down a peg or two.” 

Kenelm, who was now hard at work at the pump-handle, 
only replied by a gracious nod. But, as he seldom lost an 
opportunity for reflection, he said to himself, while he laved 
his face in the stream from the spout, “ One can’t wonder 
why every small man thinks it so pleasant to let down a big 
one, when a father asks a stranger to let down his own son 
for even fancying that he is not small beer. It is upon that 
principle in human nature that criticism wisely relinquishes 
its pretensions as an analytical science and becomes a lucra¬ 
tive profession. It relies on the pleasure its readers find in 
letting a man down.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

It was a pretty, quaint farmhouse, such as might go well 
with two or three hundred acres of tolerably good land, tol¬ 
erably well farmed by an active old-fashioned tenant, who, 
though he did not use mowing-machines nor steam-ploughs, 
nor dabble in chemical experiments, still brought an ade¬ 
quate capital to his land, and made the capital yield a very 
fair return of interest. The supper was laid out in a good- 
sized though low-pitched parlor with a glazed door, now 
wide open, as were all the latticed windows, looking into a 
small garden, rich in those straggling old English flowers 
which are nowadays banished from gardens more pretentious 



KEN ELM CH1LLINGL\. 


91 


and infinitely less fragrant. At *one corner was an arbor 
covered with honeysuckle, and, opposite to it, a row of bee¬ 
hives. The room itself had an air of comfort, and that sort 
of elegance which indicates the presiding genius of feminine 
taste. There were shelves suspended to the wall by blue 
ribbons, and filled with small books neatly bound ; there 
were flower-pots in all the window-sills ; there was a small 
cottage piano ; the walls were graced partly with engraved 
portraits of county magnates and prize oxen, partly with 
samplers in worsted-work, comprising verses of moral char¬ 
acter and the names and birthdays bf the farmer’s grand¬ 
mother, mother, wife, and daughters. Over the chimney- 
piece was a small mirror, and above that the trophy of a 
fox’s brush ; while niched into an angle in the room was a 
glazed cupboard, rich with specimens of old china, Indian 
and English. 

The party consisted of the farmer, his wife, three buxom 
daughters, and a pale faced slender lad of about twenty, the 
only son, who did not take willingly to farming : he had 
been educated at a superior grammar school, and had high 
notions about the March of Intellect and the Progress of 
the Age. 

Kenelm, though among the gravest of mortals, was one 
of the least shy. In fact shyness is the usual symptom of a 
keen amour-propre; and of that quality the youthful Chil¬ 
lingly scarcely possessed more than did the three Fishes of 
his hereditary scutcheon. He felt himself perfectly at home 
with his entertainers ; taking care, however, that his atten¬ 
tions were so equally divided between the three daughters 
as to prevent all suspicion of a particular preference. 
“ There is safety in numbers,” thought he, “ especially in odd 
numbers. The three Graces never married, neither did the 
nine Muses.” 

“ I presume, young ladies, that you are fond of music,” 
said Kenelm, glancing at the piano. 

“ Yes, I love it dearly,” said the eldest girl, speaking for 
the others. 

Quoth the farmer, as he heaped the stranger’s plate with 
boiled beef and carrots, “ Things are not what they were 
when I was a boy ; then it was only great tenant-farmers 
who had their girls taught the piano, and sent their boys to 
a good school. Now we small folks are for helping our 
children a step or two higher than our own place on the 
ladder.” 


02 


KENELM CHILLmCLV, 


“The schoolmaster is abroad,” said the son, with thd 
emphasis of a sage adding an original aphorism to the stores 
of philosophy. 

“ There is, no doubt, a greater equality of culture than 
there was in the last generation,” said Kenelm. “ People 
of all ranks utter the same commonplace ideas in very much 
the same arrangements of syntax. And in proportion as 
the democracy of intelligence extends—a friend of mine, 
who is a doctor, tells me that complaints formerly reserved 
to what is called the aristocracy (though what that word 
means in plain English I don’t know) are equally shared by 
the commonalty— tic-douloureux and other neuralgic mala¬ 
dies abound. And the human race, in England at least, is 
becoming more slight and delicate. There is a fable of a 
man who, when he became exceedingly old, was turned into 
a grasshopper. England is very old, and is evidently ap¬ 
proaching the grasshopper state of development. Perhaps 
we don’t eat as much beef as our forefathers did. May I 
ask you for another slice ? ” 

Kenelm’s remarks were somewhat over the heads of his 
audience. But the son, taking them as a slur upon the en¬ 
lightened spirit of the age, colored up and said, with a 
knitted brow, “ I hope, sir, that you are not an enemy to 
progress.” 

“ That depends: for instance, I prefer staying here, 
where I am well off, to going farther and faring worse.” 

“ Well said ! ” cried the farmer. 

Not deigning to notice that interruption, the son took up 
Kenelm’s reply with a sneer : “ I suppose you mean that it 
is to fare worse, if you march with the time.” 

“ I am afraid we have no option but to march with the 
time ; but when we reach that stage when to march any far¬ 
ther is to march into old age, we should not be sorry if time 
would be kind enough to stand still ; and all good doctors 
concur in advising us to do nothing to hurry him.” 

“ There is no sign of old age in this country, sir ; and 
thank heaven, we are not standing still !” 

“ Grasshoppers never do ; they are always hopping and 
jumping, and making what they think ‘ progress,’till (unless 
they hop into the water and are swallowed up prematurely 
by a carp or a frog) they die of the exhaustion which hops and 
jumps unremitting naturally produce. May I ask you, Mrs 
Saunderson, for some of that rice-pudding ?” 

The farmer, who, though he did not quite comprehend 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


93 


Renelm’s metaphorical mode of arguing, saw delightedly 
that his wise son looked more posed than himself, cried with 
great glee, “ Bob, my boy,—Bob ! our visitor is a little too 
much for you ! ” 

“Oh, no,” said Kenelm, modestly. “But I honestly 
think Mr. Bob would be a wiser man, and a weightier man, 
and more removed from the grasshopper state, if he would 
think less and eat more pudding.” 

When the supper was over, the farmer olfered Kenelm 
a clay pipe filled with shag, which that adventurer accepted 
with his habitual resignation to the ills of life ; and the 
whole party, excepting Mrs. Saunderson, strolled into the 
garden. Kenelm and Mr. Saunderson seated themselves in 
the honey-suckle arbor ; the girls and the advocate of pro¬ 
gress stood without among the garden flowers. It was a 
still and lovely night, the moon at her full. The farmer, 
seated facing his hay-fields, smoked on placidly. Kenelm, 
at the third whiff, laid aside his pipe, and glanced furtively 
at the three Graces. They formed a pretty group, all clus¬ 
tered together near the silenced beehives, the two younger 
seated on the grass strip that bordered the flower-beds, their 
arms over each other’s shoulders, the elder one standing be¬ 
hind them, with the moonlight shining soft on her auburn 
hair. 

Young Saunderson walked restlessly by himself to and 
fro the path of gravel. 

“ It is a strange thing,” ruminated Kenelm, “that girls 
are not unpleasant to look at if you take them collectively 
—two or three bound up together ; but if you detach any 
one of them from the bunch, the odds are that she is as 
plain as a pike-staff. I wonder whether that bucolical 
grasshopper, who is so enamored of the hop and jump that 
he calls ‘progress,’ classes the society of the Mormons 
among the evidences of civilized advancement. There is a 
good deal to be said in favor of taking a whole lot of wives 
as one may buy a whole lot of cheap razors. For it is not 
irnpossible that out of a dozen a good one may be found. 
And then, too, a whole nosegay of variegated blooms, with 
a faded leaf here and there, must be more agreeable to the 
eye than the same monotonous solitary lady’s smock. But 
I fear these reflections are naughty ; let us change them. 
Farmer,” he said aloud, “ I suppose your handsome daugh¬ 
ters are too fine to assist you much. I did not see them 
among the haymakers.” 


04 


KEN'ELM CHILLINGLY, 


“ Oh, they were there, but by themselves, in the back 
part of the field. I did not want them to mix with all the 
girls, many of whom are strangers from other places. I 
don’t know anything against them ; but as I don’t know any¬ 
thing for them, I thought it as well to keep my lasses apart.” 

“ But I should have supposed it wiser to keep your son 
apart from them. I saw him in the thick of those nymphs.” 

“Well,” said the farmer, musingly, and withdrawing his 
pipe from his lips, “ I don’t think lasses not quite well 
brought up, poor things ! do as much harm to the lads as 
they can do to proper-behaved lasses—leastways my wife 
does not think so. ‘ Keep good girls from bad girls,’ says 
she, ‘and good girls will never go wrong.’ And you will 
find there is something in that when you have girls of your 
own to take care of.’ 

“ Without waiting for that time—which I trust may never 
occur—I can recognize the wisdom of your excellent wife’s 
observation. My own opinion is, that a woman can more 
easily do mischief to her own sex than to ours,—since, of 
course, she cannot exist without doing mischief to some¬ 
body or other.” 

“And good, too,” said the jovial farmer, thumping his 
fist on the table. “ What should we be without the women ? ” 
“ Very much better, I take it, sir. Adam was as good as 
gold, and never had a qualm of conscience or stomach, till 
Eve seduced him into eating raw apples.” 

“ Young man, thou’st been crossed in love. I see it now. 
That’s why thou look’st so sorrowful.” 

“ Sorrowful! Did you ever know a man crossed in love 
who looked less sorrowful when he came across a pudding ? ” 
“ Hey! but thou canst ply a good knife and fork—that 
I will say for thee.” Here the farmer turned round, and 
gazed on Kenelm with deliberate scrutiny. That scrutiny 
accomplished, his voice took a somewhat more respectful 
tone, as he resumed, “ Do you know that you puzzle me 
somewhat ? ” 

“ Very likely. I am sure that I puzzle myself. Say on.’* 

“ Looking at your dress and—and-” 

“ The two shillings you gave me ? Yes-” 

“ I took you for the son of some small farmer like my¬ 
self. But now I judge from your talk that you are a college 
chap—anyhow, a gentleman. Ben’t it so ? ” 

“ My dear Mr. Saunderson, I set out on my travels, which 
is not long ago, with a strong dislike to telling lies. But I 





KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


95 


doubt if a man can get long through this world without find“ 
ing that the faculty of lying was bestowed on him by nature 
as a necessary means of self-preservation. If you are going 
to ask me any questions about myself, I am sure that I shall 
tell you lies. Perhaps, therefore, it may be best for both if 
I decline the bed you proffered me, and take my night’s 
rest under a hedge.” 

“Pooh! I don’t want to know more of a man’s affairs 
than he thinks fit to tell me. Stay and finish the haymak¬ 
ing. And I say, lad, I’m glad you don’t seem to care for 
the girls ; for I saw a very pretty one trying to flirt with you 
—and if you don’t mind she’ll bring you into trouble.” 

“How ? Does she want to run away from her uncle ?” 

“Uncle! Bless you, she don’t live with him ! She lives 
with her father ; and I never knew that she wants to run 
away. In fact, Jessie Wiles—that’s her name—is, I believe, 
a very good girl, and everybody likes her—perhaps a little too 
much ; but then she knows she’s a beauty, and does not ob¬ 
ject to admiration.” 

“No woman ever does, whether she’s a beauty or not. 
But I don’t yet understand why Jessie Wiles should bring 
ne into trouble.” 

“ Because there is a big hulking fellow who has gone half 
out of his wits for her ; and when he fancies he sees any 
other chap too sweet on her he thrashes him into a jelly. So, 
youngster, you just keep your skin out of that trap.” 

“ Hera ! And what does the girl say to those proofs of 
affection ^ Does she like the man the better for thrashing 
other admirers into jelly?” 

“Poor child! No ; she hates the very sight of him. But 
he swears she shall marry nobody else, if he hangs for it. 
And to tell you the truth, I suspect that if Jessie does seem 
to trifle with others a little too lightly, it is to draw away 
this bully's suspicion from the only man I tliink she does care 
for—a poor sickly young fellow who was crippled by an acch 
dent, and whom Tom Bowles could brain with his little 
finger.” 

“ This is really interesting,” cried Kenelm, showing some¬ 
thing like excitement. “ I should like to know this terrible 
suitor.” 

“ That’s easy eno’,” said the farmer, dryly. “ You have 
only to take* a stroll with Jessie Wiles after sunset, and you’ll 
know more of Tom Bowles than you are likely to forget in 
a month.” 


96 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


“Thank you very much for your information,” saiA 
Kenelm, in a soft tone, grateful but pensive. “ I hope to 
profit by it.” 

“ Do. I should be sorry if any harm came to thee ; and 
Tom Bowles in one of his furies is as bad to cross as a mad 
bull. So now, as we must be up early. I’ll just take a look 
round the stables, and then off to bed ; and I advise you 
to do the same.” 

“ Thank you for the hint. I see the young ladies have 
already gone in. Good-night.” 

Passing through the garden, Kenelm encountered the 
junior Saunderson. 

“I fear,” said the Votary of Progress, “that you have 
found the governor awful slow. What have you been talk¬ 
ing about ? ” 

“ Girls,” said Kenelm, “ a subject always awful, but not 
necessarily slow.” 

“Girls—the governor been talking about girls. You 
joke.” 

“ I wish I did joke, but that is a thing I could never do 
since I came upon earth. Even in the cradle, I felt 
that life was a very serious matter and did not allow of 
jokes. I remember too well my first dose of castor-oil. 
You too, Mr. Bob have doubtless imbibed that initiatory 
preparation to the sweets of existence. The corners of 
your mouth have not recovered from the downward curves 
into which it so rigidly dragged them. Like myself, you 
are of grave temperament, and not easily moved to jocu¬ 
larity—nay, an enthusiast for Progress is of necessity a man 
eminently dissatisfied with the present state of affairs. And 
chronic dissatisfaction resents the momentary relief of a joke.” 

“ Give off chaffing, if you please,” said Bob, lowering 
the didascalar intonations of his voice, “and just tell me 
plainly, did not my father say anything particular about me ? ” 

“ Not a word. The only person of the male sex of whom 
he said anything particular was Tom Bowles.” 

“ What, fighting Tom ! the terror of the whole neighbor^ 
hood ! Ah, I guess the old gentleman is afraid lest Tom 
may fall foul upon me. But Jessie Wiles is not worth a 
quarrel with that brute. It is a crying shame in the Gov¬ 
ernment-” 

“What! has the Government failed to appreciate the 
heroism of Tom Bowles, or rather to restrain the excesses 
of its ardor ? ” 




KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


97 


“ Stuff ! it is a shame in the Government not to have 
compelled his father to put him to school. If education 
were universal^-” 

“You think there would be no brutes in particular. It 
may be so ; but education is universal in China, and so 
is the bastinado. I thought, however, that you said the 
schoolmaster was abroad, and that the age of enlightenment 
was in full progress." 

“Yes, in the towns, but not in these obsolete rural dis¬ 
tricts ; and that brings me to the point. I feel lost—thrown 
away here. I have something in me, sir, and it can only 
come out by collision with equal minds. So do me a favor, 
will you ? " 

“ With the greatest pleasure.” 

“ Give the governor a hint that he can’t expect me, after 
che education I have had, to follow the plough and fatten 
pigs ; and that Manchester is the place for me.” 

“ Why Manchester ? ” 

“ Because I have a relation in business there who will 
give me a clerkship if thegovernor will consent. And Man¬ 
chester rules England.” 

“ Mr. Bob Saunderson, I will do my best to promote your 
wishes. This is a land of liberty, and every man should 
choose his own walk in it, so that, at the last, if he goes to 
the dogs, he goes to them without that disturbance of 
temper which is naturally occasioned by the sense of being 
driven to their jaws by another man against his own will. 
He has then no one to blame but himself. And that, Mr. 
Bob, is a great comfort. When, having got into a scrape, 
we blame others, we unconsciously become unjust, spiteful, 
uncharitable, malignant, perhaps revengeful. We indulge 
in feelings which tend to demoralize the whole character. 
But when we only blame ourselves, we become modest and 
penitent. We make allowances for others. And, indeed, 
self-blame is a salutary exercise of conscience, which a really 
good man performs every day of his life. And now, will 
you show me the room in which I am to sleep, and forget 
for a few hours that I am alive at all—the best thing that 
can happen to us in this world, my dear Mr. Bob ! There’s 
never much amiss with our days, so long as we can forget 
all about them the moment we lay our heads on the pillow.” 

The two young men entered the house amicably, arm in 
arm. The girls had already retired, but Mrs. Saunderson 
Was still up to conduct her visitor to the guest’s chamber—^ 



98 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


a pretty room, which had been furnished twenty-two years 
ago, on the occasion of the farmer’s marriage, at the expense 
of Mrs. Saunderson’s mother, for her own occupation when¬ 
ever she paid them a visit. And with its dimity curtains 
and trellised paper it still looked as fresh and new as if 
decorated and furnished yesterday. 

Left alone, Kenelm undressed, and, before he got into 
bed, bared his right arm, and doubling it, gravely contem¬ 
plated its muscular development, passing his left hand over 
that prominence in the upper part which is vulgarly called 
the ball. Satisfied apparently with the size and the firmness 
of that pugilistic protuberance, he gently sighed forth, “ I 
fear I shall have to lick Thomas Bowles.” In five minutes 
more he was asleep. 


CHAPTER X. 

The next day the hay-mowing was completed, and a 
large portion of the hay already made carted away to be 
stacked. Kenelm acquitted himself with a credit not less 
praiseworthy than had previously won Mr. Saunderson’s ap¬ 
probation. But instead of rejecting as before the acquaint¬ 
ance of Miss Jessie Wiles, he contrived towards noon to 
place himself near to that dangerous beauty, and commenced 
conversation. “ I am afraid I was rather rude to you yester¬ 
day, and I want to beg pardon.” 

“ Oh,” answered the girl, in that simple intelligible Eng¬ 
lish which is more frequent among our village folks nowa¬ 
days than many popular novelists would lead us into sup¬ 
posing—“ oh, I ought to ask pardon for taking a liberty in 
speaking to you. But I thought you’d feel strange, and I 
intended it kindly.” 

“ I’m sure you did,” returned Kenelm, chivalrously rak¬ 
ing her portion of hay as well as his own, while he spoke. 

And I want to be good friends with you. It is very nea/ 
the time when we shall leave off for dinner, and Mrs. Saun- 
derson has filled my pockets with some excellent beef-sand¬ 
wiches, which I shall be happy to share with you, if you do 
not object to dine with me here, instead of going home for 
your dinner,” 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


99 


The girl hesitated, and then shook her head in dissent 
from the proposition. 

“ Are you afraid that your neighbors will think it 
wrong ? ” 

Jessie curled up her lip with a pretty scorn, and said, 
“ I don’t much care what other folks say ; but isn’t it 
wrong ? ” 

“ Not in the least. Let me make your mind easy. I am 
here but for a day or two ; we are not likely ever to meet 
again ; but, before I go, I should be glad if I could do you 
some little service.” As he spoke he had paused from his 
work, and, leaning on his rake, fixed his eyes, for the first 
time attentively, on the fair haymaker. 

Yes, she was decidedly pretty—pretty to a rare degree— 
luxuriant brown hair neatly tied up, under a straw hat 
doubtless of her own plaiting ; for, as a general rule, nothing 
more educates the village maid for the destinies of flirt than 
the accomplishment of straw-plaiting. She had large, soft 
blue eyes, delicate small features, and a complexion more 
clear in its healthful bloom than rural beauties generally 
retain against the influences of wind and sun. She smiled 
and slightly colored as he gazed on her, and, lifting her 
eyes, gave him one gentle, trustful glance, which might have 
bewitched a philosopher and deceived a roul. And yet 
Kenelm, by that intuitive knowledge of character which is 
often truthfulest where it is least disturbed by the doubts 
and cavils of acquired knowledge, felt at once that in that 
girl’s mind coquetry, perhaps unconscious, was conjoined 
with an innocence of anything worse than coquetry as com¬ 
plete as a child’s. He bowed* his head, in withdrawing his 
gaze, and took her into his heart as tenderly as if she had 
been a child appealing to it for protection. 

“Certainly,” he said inly—“certainly I must lick Tom 
Bowles ; yet stay, perhaps after all she likes him.” 

“ But,” he continued aloud, “you do not see how I can 
be of any service to you. Before I explain, let me ask 
which of the men in the field is Tom Bowles ? ” 

“ Tom Bowles ! ” exclaimed Jessie, in a tone of surprise 
and alarm, and turning pale as she looked hastily round ; 
“you frightened me, sir, but he is not here ; he does not 
work in the fields. But how came you to hear of Tom Bow- 
les?” 

“ Dine with me and I’ll tell you. Look, there is a quiet 
place in yon corner under the thorn-trees by that piece of 


lOO 


fCENELM CHILLINGLY. 


water. See, they are leaving off work : I will go for a can 
of beer, and then, pray, let me join you there.” 

Jessie paused for a moment as if doubtful still ; then 
again glancing at Kenelm, and assured by the grave kind¬ 
ness of his countenance, uttered a scarce audible assent, and 
moved away towards the thorn-trees. 

As the sun now stood perpendicularly over their heads, 
and the hand of the clock in the village church tower, soaring 
over the hedgerows, reached the first hour after noon, all 
work ceased in a sudden silence ; some of the girls went 
back to their homes ; those who stayed grouped together, 
apart from the men, who took their way to the shadows of a 
large oak-tree in the hedgerow, where beer-kegs and cans 
awaited them. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ And now,” said Kenelm, as the two young persons, 
having finished their simple repast, sat under the thorn- 
trees and by the side of the water, fringed at that part with 
tall reeds through which the light summer breeze stirred 
with a pleasant murmur,—“ now I will talk to you about 
Tom Bowles. Is it true that you don’t like that brave 
young fellow ?—I say young, as I take his youth for 
granted.” 

“ Like him ! I hate the sight of him.” 

“Did you always hate the sight of him? You must 
surely at one time have allowed him to think that you did 
not ? ” 

The girl winced, and made no answer, but plucked a 
daffodil from the soil and tore it ruthlessly to pieces. 

“ I am afraid you like to serve your admirers as you do 
that ill-fated flower,” said Kenelm, with some severity of 
tone. “ But concealed in the flower you may sometimes find 
the sting of a bee. I see by your countenance that you did 
not tell Tom Bowles that you hated him till it was too late 
to prevent his losing his wits for you.” 

“ No ; I wasn’t so bad as that,” said Jessie, looking, 
nevertheless, rather ashamed of herself; “but I was silly 
and giddy-like, I own ; and, when he first took notice of 
jne, I was pleased, witliout thinking much of it, because. 



kENELM CniLtmcLV. 


lOI 


you see, Mr. Bowles [emphasis on J/r.] is higher Up than a 
poor girl like me. He is a tradesman, and I am only a 
shepherd’s daughter—though, indeed, father is more like 
Mr. Saunderson’s foreman than a mere shepherd. But I 
never thought anything serious of it, and did not suppose 
he did—that is, at first.” 

“ So Tom Bowles is a tradesman. What trade? ” 

“ A farrier, sir.” i 

“ And, I am told, a very fine young man.” 

“ I don’t know as to that: he is very big.” ‘ 

“And what made you hate him ? ” 

“ The first thing that made me hate him was, that he in¬ 
sulted father, who is a very quiet, timid man, and threat¬ 
ened, I don’t know what, if father did not make me keep 
company with him. Make me, indeed ! But Mr. Bowles is 
a dangerous, bad-hearted, violent man, and—don't laugh at 
me, sir—but I dreamed one night he was murdering me. 
And I think he will too, if he stays here ; and so does his 
poor mother, who is a very nice woman, and wants him to 
go away ; but he’ll not.” 

“Jessie,” said Kenelm, softly, “ I said I wanted to make 
friends with you. Do you think you can make a friend of 
me ? I can never be more than friend. But I should like to 
be that. Can you trust me as one ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the girl firmly, and, as she lifted her 
eyes to him, their look was pure from all vestige of co¬ 
quetry—guileless, frank, grateful. 

“ Is there not another young man who courts you more 
civilly than Tom Bowles does, and whom you really could 
find it in your heart to like ? ” 

Jessie looked round for another daffodil, and, not finding 
£>ne, contented herself with a blue-bell, which she did not 
tear to pieces, but caressed with a tender hand. Kenelm 
bent his eyes down on her charming face with something in 
their gaze rarely seen there—something of that unreason¬ 
ing, inexpressible human fondness, for which philosophers 
of his school have no excuse. Had ordinary mortals, like 
you or myself, for instance, peered through the leaves of 
the thorn-trees, we should have sighed or frowned, accord¬ 
ing to our several temperaments, but we should all have 
said, whether spitefully or envyingly, “ Happy young 
lovers ! ” and should all have blundered lamentably in so 
saying. 

Still there is no denvinp- the fact that aorettv face has ^ 


KENELM CHILUNGLY, 


toi 

very unfair advantage over a plain one. And, much to the 
discredit of Kenelm’s philanthropy, it may be reasonably 
doubted whether, had Jessie Wiles been endowed by nature 
with a snub nose and a squint, Kenelrn would have volun¬ 
teered his friendly services, or meditated battle with Tom 
Bowles on her behalf. 

But there was no touch of envy or jealousy in the tone 
with which he said : 

“ I see there is some one you would like well enough to 
marry, and that you make a great difference in the way you 
treat a daffodil and a blue-bell. Who and what is the 
young man whom the blue-bell represents ? Come, con¬ 
fide.” 

“ We were much brought up together,” said Jessie, still 
looking down, and still smoothing the leaves of the blue¬ 
bell. “His mother lived in the next cottage; and my 
mother was very fond of him, and so was father too ; and, 
before I was ten years old, they used to laugh when poor 
Will called me his little wife.” Here the tears which had 
started to Jessie’s eyes began to fall over the flower. “ But 
now father would not hear of it; and it can’t be. . And I’ve 
tried to care for some one else, and I can’t, and that’s the 
truth.” 

“ But why ? Has he turned out ill ?—taken to poaching 
or drink ? ” 

“ No—no—no,—he’s as steady and good a lad as ever 
lived. But—but-” 

“ He’s a cripple now—and I love him all the better for 
it.” Here Jessie fairly sobbed. 

Kenelrn was greatly moved, and prudently held his 
peace till she had a little recovered herself ; then, in answer 
to his gentle questionings, he learned that Will Somers—till 
then a healthy and strong lad—had fallen from the height 
of a scaffolding, at the age of sixteen, and been so seriously 
injured that he was moved at once to the hospital. When 
he came out of it—what with the fall, and what with the 
long illness which had followed the effects of the accident— 
he was not only crippled for life, but of health so delicate 
and weakly that he was no longer fit for out-door labor and 
the hard life of a peasant. He was an only son of a wid¬ 
owed mother, and his sole mode of assisting her was a very 
precarious one. He had taught himself basket-making; 
and though, Jessie said, his work was very ingenious and 
clever, still there were but few customers for it in that 



ItENELM CNIlUUGLY, 


fieighbofhood. And, alas! even if Jessie’s father would 
consent to give his daughter to the poor cripple, how could 
the poor cripple earn enough to maintain a wife ? 

“ And,” said Jessie, “ still I was happy, walking out with 
him on Sunday evenings, or going to sit with him and his 
mother—for we are both young and can wait. But I daren’t 
do it any more now—for Tom Bowles has sworn that if I do 
he will beat him before my eyes ; and Will has a high spirit, 
and I should break my heart if any harm happened to him 
on my account.” 

“ As for Mr. Bowles, we’ll not think of him at present. 
But if Will could maintain himself and you, your father 
would not object, nor you either, to a marriage with the 
poor cripple ? ” 

“ Father would not; and as for me, if it weren’t for dis¬ 
obeying father. I’d marry him to-morrow.—/can work.” 

“ They are going back to the hay now ; but after that 
task is over, let me walk home with you, and show me Will's 
cottage and Mr. Bowdes’s shop, or forge.” 

‘‘ But you’ll not say anything to Mr. Bowles. He 
wouldn’t mind your being a gentleman, as I now see you 
are, sir ; and he’s dangerous—oh, so dangerous !—and so 
strong.” 

“ Never fear,” answered Kenelm, with the nearest ap¬ 
proach to a laugh he had ever made since childhood ; “ but 
when we are relieved, wait for me a few minutes at yon 
gate.” 


CHAPTER XH. 

Kenelm spoke no more to his new friend in the hay- 
fields ; but when the day’s work was over he looked round 
for the farmer to make an excuse for not immediately join* 
ing the family supper. However, he did not see either Mr. 
Saunderson or his son. Both were busied in the stackyard. 
Well pleased to escape excuse and the questions it might 
provoke, Kenelm therefore put on the coat he had laid aside 
and joined Jessie, who had waited for him at the gate. They 
entered the lane side by side, following the stream of vil¬ 
lagers who were slowly wending their homeward way. It 
was a primitive English village, not adorned on the one 
hand with fancy or model cottages, nor on the other hand 



1(54 


mNELM CBILLINGLY, 


indicating penury and squalor. The church rose before 
them gray and Gothic, backed by the red clouds in which 
the sun had set, and bordered by the glebe-land of the half- 
seen parsonage. Then came the village green, with a pretty 
schoolhouse ; and to this succeeded a long street of scat¬ 
tered whitewashed cottages, in the midst of their own little 
gardens. 

As they walked, the moon rose in full splendor, silvering 
the road before them. 

“ Who is the squire here?” asked Kenelm. “I should 
guess him to be a good sort of man, and well off.” 

“ Yes,—Squire Travers ; he is a great gentleman, and 
they say very rich. But his place is a good way from this 
village. You can see it if you stay, for he gives a harvest- 
home supper on Saturday, and Mr. Saunderson and all his 
tenants are going. It is a beautiful park, and Miss Travers 
is a sight to look at. Oh, she is lovely !” continued Jessie, 
with an unaffected burst of admiration ; for women are more 
sensible of the charm of each other’s beauty than men give 
them credit for. 

“ As pretty as yourself ? ” 

“ Oh, pretty is not the word. She is a thousand times 
handsomer ! ” 

“Humph!” said Kenelm, incredulously. 

There was a pause, broken by a quick sigh from Jessie. 

“ What are you sighing for ?—tell me.” 

“ I was thinking that a very little can make folks happy, 
but that somehow or other that very little is as hard to get 
as if one set one’s heart on a great deal.” 

“ That’s very wisely said. Everybody covets a little 
something for which, perhaps, nobody else would give a 
straw. But what‘s the very little thing for which you are 
sighing ? ” 

“ Mrs. Bawtrey wants to sell that shop of hers. She is 
getting old, and has had fits ; and she can get nobody to 
buy ; and if Will had that shop and I could keep it—but ’tis 
no use thinking of that.” 

“ What shop do you mean ? ” 

“ There! ” 

“Where ? I see no shop.” 

“ But it is the shop of the village—the only one, wher6‘ 
the post-ofhce is.” 

“ Ah ! I see something at the windows like a red cloak. 
What do they sell ? ” 


KEN-ELM CHJLLINGL F. 


165 


“ Everything—tea and sugar, and candles, and shawls, 
and gowns, and cloaks, and mouse-traps, and letter-paper, 
and Mrs. Bawtrey buys poor Will’s baskets, and sells them 
for a good deal more than she pays.” 

“ It seems a nice cottage, with a field and orchard at the 
back.” 

Yes. Mrs. Bawtrey pays a year for it; but the shop 
can well afford it.” 

Kenelm made no reply. They both walked on in silence, 
and had now reached the centre of the village street, when 
Jessie, looking up, uttered an abrupt exclamation, gave an 
affrighted start, and then came to a dead stop. 

Kenelm’s eye followed the direction of hers, and saw, a 
few yards distant, at the other side of the way, a small red 
brick house, with thatched sheds adjoining it, the whole 
standing in a wide yard, over the gate of which leaned a 
man smoking a small cutty-pipe. “It is Tom Bowles,” 
whispered Jessie, and instinctively she twined her arm into 
Kenelm’s—then, as if on second thoughts, withdrew it, and 
said, still in a whisper, “ Go back now, sir—do.” 

“Not I. It is Tom Bowles whom I want to know. 
Hush ! ” 

For here Tom Bowles had thrown down his pipe and was 
coming slowly across the road towards them. 

Kenelm eyed him with attention. A singularly power¬ 
ful man, not so tall as Kenelm by some inches, but still 
above the middle height, herculean shoulders and chest, the 
lower limbs not in equal proportion—a sort of slouching, 
shambling gait. As he advanced, the moonlight fell on his 
face,—it was a handsome one. He wore no hat, and his hair, 
of a light brown, curled close. His face was fresh-colored, 
with aquiline features ; his age apparently about six or seven- 
and-twenty. Coming nearer and nearer, whatever favorable 
impression the first glance at his physiognomy might have 
made on Kenelm was dispelled, for the expression of his 
face changed and became fierce and lowering. 

Kenelm was still walking on, Jessie by his side, when 
Bowles rudely thrust himself between them, and seizing the 
girl’s arm with one hand, he turned his face full on Kenelm, 
with a menacing wave of the other hand, and said, in a deep 
burly voice : 

“ Who be you ? ” 

“Let go that young woman before I tell you.” 

“ If you weren’t a stranger,” answered Bowles, seeming 


f66 


KEN ELM cniLLlNGL K 


as if he tried to repress a rising fit of wrath, “ you’d be ib 
the kennel for those words. But I s’pose you don’t know 
that I’m Tom Bowles, and I don’t choose the girl as I’m after 
to keep company with any other man. So you be off.” 

“And I don’t choose any other man to lay violent hands 
on any girl walking by my side without telling him that he’s 
a brute, and that I only w^ait till he has both his hands at 
liberty to let him know that he has not a poor cripple to 
deal with.” 

Tom Bowles could scarcely believe his ears. Amaze 
swallowed up for the moment every other sentiment. Me¬ 
chanically he loosened his hold of Jessie, who fled off like a 
bird released. But evidently she thought of her new friend’s 
danger more than her own escape ; for, instead of sheltering 
herself in her father’s cottage, she ran towards a group of 
laborers, who, near at hand, had stopped loitering before the 
public-house, and returned wdth those allies towards the spot 
in which she had left the two men. She was very popular 
with the villagers, who, strong in the sense of numbers, over¬ 
came their awe of Tom Bowles, and arrived at the place half 
running, half striding, in time, they hoped, to interpose be¬ 
tween his terrible arm and the bones of the unoffending 
stranger. 

Meanwhile Bowles, having recovered his first astonish¬ 
ment, and scarcely noticing Jessie’s escape, still left his right 
arm extended towards the place she had vacated, and with a 
quick back-stroke of the left levelled at Kenelm’s face, 
growled contemptuously, “ Thou’lt find one hand* enough 
for thee.” 

But quick as was his aim, Kenelm caught the lifted arm 
just above the elbow, causing the blow to waste itself on air, 
and with a simultaneous advance of his right knee and foot 
dexterously tripped up his bulky antagonist, and laid him 
sprawling on his back. The movement was so sudden, and 
the stun it occasioned so utter, morally as well as physically, 
that a minute or more elapsed before Tom Bowles picked 
himself up. And he then stood another minute glowering 
t his antagonist with a vague sentiment of awe almost like 
»i'superstitious panic. For it is noticeable that, however 
fierce and fearless a man or even a wild beast may be, yet if 
either has hitherto been only familiar with victory and tri¬ 
umph, never yet having met with a foe that could cope with 
its force, the first effect of a defeat, especially from a de* 
spised adversary, unhinges and half paralyzes the whole 


KENELM CntLLWGtY, 


nervous system. But as fighting Tom gradually recovered 
to the consciousness of his own strength, and the recollec¬ 
tion that it had been only foiled by the skilful trick of a 
wrestler, not the hand-to-hand might of a pugilist, the panic 
vanished, and Tom Bowles was himself again. “ Oh, that’s 
your sort, is it?” said he. “We don’t fight with our heels 
hereabouts, like Cornishers and donkeys ; we fight with our 
fists, youngster ; and since you will have a bout at that, why 
you must.” 

“ Providence,” answered Kenelm, solemnly, “ sent me to 
this village for the express purpose of licking Tom Bowles. 
It is a signal mercy vouchsafed to yourself, as you will one 
day acknowledge.” 

Again a thrill of awe, something like that which the 
demagogue in Aristophanes might have felt when braved by 
the sausage-maker, shot through the valiant heart of Tom 
Bowles. He did not like those ominous words, and still less 
the lugubrious tone of voice in which they were uttered. 
But resolved, at least, to proceed to battle with more pre¬ 
paration than he had at first designed, he now deliberately 
disencumbered himself of his heavy fustian jacket and vest, 
rolled up his shirt sleeves, and then slowly advanced towards 
the foe. 

Kenelm had also, with still greater deliberation, taken off 
his coat—which he folded up with care, as being both a new 
and an only one, and deposited by the hedge-side—and bared 
arms, lean indeed, and almost slight, as compared with the 
vast muscle of his adversary, but firm in sinew as the hind¬ 
leg of a stag. 

By this time the laborers, led by Jessie, had arrived at 
the spot, and were about to crowd in between the combat¬ 
ants, when Kenelm waved them back, and said in a calm and 
impressive voice : 

“ Stand round, my good friends, make a ring, and see 
that it is fair play on my side. I am sure it will be fair on 
Mr. Bowles’s. He’s big enough to scorn what is little. And 
now, Mr. Bowles, just a word with you in the presence of 
your neighbors. I am not going to say anything uncivil. If 
you are rather rough and hasty, a man is not always master 
of himself—at least so I am told—when he thinks more than 
he ought to do about a pretty girl. But I can’t look at your 
face even by this moonlight, and though its expression at 
this moment is rather cross, without being sure that you are 


I 08 


k-ENElM CHtLLWGLY. 


a fine fellow at bottom. And that if you give a promise as 
man to man you will keep it. Is that so ? ” 

One or two of the bystanders murmured assent; the 
others pressed round in silent wonder. 

“What’s all that soft-sawder about ?” said Tom Bowles, 
somewhat falteringly. 

“ Simply this : if in the fight between us I beat you, I ask 
you to promise before your neighbors that you will not by 
word or deed molest or interfere again with Miss Jessie 
Wiles.” 

“ Eh ! ” roared Tom. “ Is it that jiw are after her ? ” 

“ Suppose I am, if that pleases you ; and, on my side, I 
promise that, if you beat me, I quit this place as soon as you 
leave me well enough to do so, and will never visit it again. 
What! do you hesitate to promise ? Are you really afraid I 
shall lick you ? ” 

“You ! I’d smash a dozen of you to powder.” 

“In that case, you are safe to promise. Come, 'tis a fair 
bargain. Isn’t it, neighbors?” 

Won over by Kenelm’s easy show of good temper, and 
by the sense of justice, the bystanders joined in a common 
exclamation of assent. 

“Come, Tom,” said an old fellow, “the gentleman can’t 
speak fairer; and we shall all think you be afeard if you 
hold back.” 

Tom’s face worked; but at last he growled, “Well, I 
promise—that is, if he beats me.” 

“All right,” said Kenelm. “You hear, neighbors ; and 
Tom Bowles could not show that handsome face of his 
among you if he broke his word. Shake hands on it.” 

Fighting Tom sulkily sljook hands. 

“Well, now, that’s what I call English,” said Kenelm,— 
“all pluck and no malice. Fall back, friends, and leave a 
clear space for us.” 

The men all receded ; and as Kenelm took his ground, 
there was a supple ease in his posture which at once brought 
out into clearer evidence the nervous strength of his build, 
and, contrasted with Tom’s bulk of chest, made the latter 
look clumsy and top-heavy. 

The two men faced each other a minute, the eyes of both 
vigilant and steadfast. Tom’s blood began to fire up as he 
gazed—nor, with all his outward calm, was Kenelm insensi¬ 
ble of that proud beat of the heart which is aroused by the 
fierce joy of combat. Tom struck out first, and a blow was 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


109 


parried, but not returned ; another and another blow—still 
parried—still unreturned. Kenelm, acting evidently on the 
defensive, took all the advantages for that strategy which he 
derived from superior length of arm and lighter agility of 
frame. Perhaps he wished to ascertain the extent of his 
adversary’s skill, or to try the endurance of his wind, before 
he ventured on the hazards of attack. Tom, galled to the 
quick that blows which might have felled an ox were thus 
warded off from their mark, and dimly aware that he was 
encountering some mysterious skill which turned his brute 
strength into waste force and might overmaster him in the 
long-run, came to a rapid conclusion that the sooner he 
brought that brute strength to bear, the better it would be 
for him. Accordingly, after three rounds, in which, without 
once breaking the guard of his antagonist, he had received 
a few playful taps on the nose and mouth, he drew back, and 
made a bull-like rush at his foe—bull-like, for it butted full 
at him with the powerful down-bent head, and the two fists 
doing duty as horns. The rush spent, he found himself in 
the position of a man milled. I take it for granted that every 
Englishman who can call himself a man—that is, every man 
who has been an English boy, and, as such, been compelled 
to the use of his fists—knows what “a mill” is. But I sing 
not only “pueris”but “virginibus.” Ladies, “a mill”— 
using, with reluctance and contempt for myself, that slang 
in which lady-writers indulge, and Girls of the Period know 
much better than they do their Murray—“ a mill ”—speak¬ 
ing not to lady-writers, not to Girls of the Period, but to in¬ 
nocent damsels, and in explanation to those foreigners who 
only understand the English language as taught by Addison 
and Macaulay—“ a mill,” periphrastically, means this : your 
adversary, in the noble encounter between fist and fist, has 
so plunged his head that it gets caught, as in a vice, between 
the side and doubled left arm of the adversary, exposing that 
head, unprotected and helpless, to be pounded out of recog¬ 
nizable shape by the right fist of the opponent. It is a sit¬ 
uation in which superiority of force sometimes finds itself, 
and is seldom spared by disciplined superiority of skill. 
Kenelm, his right fist raised, paused for a moment, then, 
loosening the left arm, releasing the prisoner, and giving 
him a friendly slap on the shoulder, he turned around to the 
spectators, and said, apologetically, “ He has a handsome 
face—it would be a shame to spoil it.” 

Tom’s position of oeril was so obvious to all, and th^l 


no 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


good-humored abnegation of the advantage which the posi 
tion gave to the adversary seemed so generous, that the la¬ 
borers actually hurrahed, Tom himself felt as if treated 
like a child; and alas, and alas for him 1 in wheeling round, 
and regathering himself up, his eye rested on Jessie’s face. 
Her lips were apart with breathless terror; he fancied they 
were apart with a smile of contempt. And now he became 
formidable. He fought as fights the bull in presence of the 
heifer, who, as he knows too well, will go with the conqueror. 

If Tom had never yet fought with a man taught by a prize¬ 
fighter, so never yet had Kenelm encountered a strength 
which, but for the lack of that teaching, would have con¬ 
quered his own. He could act no longer on the defensive ■ 
he could no longer play, like a dexterous fencer, with the 
sledge-hammers of those mighty arms. They broke through 
his guard—they sounded on his chest as on an anvil. He felt 
that did they alight on his head he was a lost man. He felt 
also that the blows spent on the chest of his adversary were 
idle as the stroke of a cane on the hide of a rhinoceros. 
But now his nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed fire—Kenelm 
Chillingly had ceased to be a philosopher. Crash came his 
blow—how unlike the swinging roundabout hits of Tom 
Bowles !—straight to its aim as the rifle-ball of a Tyrolese, oi 
a British marksman at Aldershot—all the strength of nerve, 
sinew, purpose, and mind concentred in its vigor,—crash just 
at that part of the front where the eyes meet", and followed 
up with the rapidity of lightning, flash upon flash, by a more 
restrained but more disabling blow with the left hand just 
where the left ear meets throat and jaw-bone. 

At the first blow Tom Bowles had reeled and staggered, 
at the second he threw up his hands, made a jump in the air 
as if shot through the heart, and then heavily fell forwards, 
an inert mass. 

The spectators pressed round him in terror. They thought 
he was dead. Kenelm knelt, passed quickly his hand over 
Tom’s lips, pulse, and heart, and then rising, said, humbly and 
with an air of apology : 

If he had been a less magnificent creature, I assure you 
on my honor that I should never have ventured that second 
blow. The first would have done for any man less splendidly 
endowed by nature! Lift him gently ; take him home. Tell 
his mother, with my kind regards, that I’ll call and see her 
and him to-morrow. And, stop, does he ever drink too much 
beer ? ” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


“Well,” said one the villagers, “Tom can drink.” 

“ I thought so. Too much flesh for that muscle. G( 
tor the nearest doctor. You, my lad ?—good—off with yoi 
—quick ! No danger; but perhaps it may be a case foi 
the lancet.” 

Tom Bowles was lifted tenderly by four of the stoutes 
men present and borne into his home, evincing no sign oi 
consciousness, but his face, where not clouted with blood, 
very pale, very calm, with a slight froth at the lips. 

Kenelm pulled down his shirt-sleeves, put on his coat 
and turned to Jessie : 

“ Now, my young friend, show me Will’s cottage.” 

The girl came to him white and trembling. She did noi 
dare to speak. The stranger had become a new man in hei 
eyes. Perhaps he frightened her as much as Tom Bowles 
had done. But she quickened her pace, leaving the public- 
house behind, till she came to the farther end of the village. 
Kenelm walked beside her, muttering to himself; and 
though Jessie caught his words, happily she did not under¬ 
stand, for they repeated one of those bitter reproaches on 
her sex, as the main cause of all strife, bloodshed, and mis¬ 
chief in general, with which the classic authors abound. 
Jlis spleen soothed by that recourse to the lessons of the 
ancients, Kenelm turned at last to his silent companion, 
and said, kindly but gravely ; 

“Mr. Bowles has given me his promise, and it is fair 
that I should now ask a promise from you. It is this—just 
consider how easily a girl so pretty as you can be the cause 
of a man’s death. Had Bowles struck me where I struck 
him, I should have been past the help of a surgeon.” 

“Oh!” groaned Jessie, shuddering, and covering her 
^ace with both hands. 

“ And, putting aside that danger, consider that a man 
may be hit mortally on the heart as well as on the head, and 
that a woman has much to answer for who, no matter what 
her excuse, forgets what misery and what guilt can be in¬ 
flicted by a word from her lip and a glance from her eye. 
Consider this, and promise that, whether you marry Will 
Somers or not, you will never again give a man fair cause 
to think you can like him unless your own heart tells you 
that you can. Will you promise that ? ” 

“ I will, indeed—indeed.” Poor Jessie’s voice died in 
gobs. 

“ There, my child, I don’t ask you not to cry, because I 


112 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


know how much women like crying, and in this instance it 
does you a great deal of good. But we are just at the end 
of the village. Which is Will’s cottage ? ” 

Jessie lifted her head, and pointed to a solitary, small 
thatched cottage. 

“ I would ask you to come in and introduce me ; but 
that might look too much like crowing over poor Tom 
Bowles. So good-night to you, Jessie, and forgive me for 
preaching.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Kenelm knocked at the cottage door : a voice said faint* 
ly, “ Come in.” 

He stooped his head, and stepped over the threshold. 

Since his encounter with Tom Bowles, his sympathies 
had gone with that unfortunate lover—it is natural to like a 
man after you have beaten him ; and he was by no means 
predisposed to favor Jessie’s preference for a sickly cripple. 

Yet, when two bright, soft, dark eyes, and a pale intel¬ 
lectual countenance, with that nameless aspect of refine¬ 
ment which delicate health so often gives, especially to the 
young, greeted his quiet gaze, hjs heart was at once won 
over to the side of the rival. Will Somers was seated by the 
hearth, on which a few live embers, despite the warmth of 
the summer evening, still burned ; a rude little table was by 
his side, on which were laid osier twigs and white peeled 
chips, together with an open book. His hands, pale and 
slender, were at work on a small basket half finished. His 
mother was just clearing away the tea-things from another 
table that stood by the window. Will rose, with the good 
breeding that belongs to the rural peasant, as the stranger 
entered ; the widow looked round with surprise, and dropped 
her simple curtsy—a little thin woman, with a mild patient 
face. 

The cottage was very tidily kept, as it is in most village 
homes where the woman has it her own way. The deal 
dresser opposite the door had its display of humble crock¬ 
ery. The whitewashed walls were relieved with colored 
prints, chiefly Scriptural subjects from the New Testament, 
such as the return of the Prodigal Son, in a blue coat and 
yellow inexpressibles, with his stockings about his heels, 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


At one corner there were piled up baskets of various 
sizes, and at another corner was an open cupboard contain¬ 
ing books—an article of decorative furniture found in cot¬ 
tages much more rarely than colored prints and gleaming 
crockery. 

All this, of course, Kenelm could not at a glance com¬ 
prehend in detail. But as the mind of a man accustomed 
to generalization is marvellously quick in forming a sound 
judgment, whereas a mind accustomed to dwell only on de¬ 
tail is wonderfully slow at arriving at any judgment at all, 
and when it does, the probability is that it will arrive at a 
wrong one, Kenelm judged correctly when he came to this 
conclusion : “ I am among simple English peasants ; but, 
for some reason or other, not to be explained by the rela¬ 
tive amount of wages, it is a favorable specimen of that 
class.” 

“ I beg your pardon for intruding at this hour, Mrs. Som¬ 
ers,” said Kenelm, who had been too familiar with peasants 
from his earliest childhood not to know how quickly, when 
in the presence of their household gods, they appreciate 
respect, and how acutely they feel the want of it. “ But 
my stay in the village is very short, and I should not like 
to leave without seeing your son’s basket-work, of which I 
have heard much.” 

“You are very good, sir,” said Will, with a pleased smile 
that wonderfully brightened up his face. “ It is only just 
a few common things that I keep by me. Any finer sort 
of work I mostly do by order.” 

“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Somers, “it takes so much 
more time for pretty work-baskets, and such like ; and un¬ 
less done to order, it might be a chance if he could get it 
sold. But pray be seated, sir,” and Mrs. Somers placed a 
chair for her visitor, “while I just run up-stairs for the 
work-basket which my son has made for Miss Travers. It 
is to go home to-morrow, and I put it away for fear of acci¬ 
dents.” 

Kenelm seated himself, and, drawing his chair near to 
Will’s, took up the half-finished basket which the young 
man had laid down on the table. 

“ This seems to me very nice and delicate workmanship,” 
said Kenelm ; “ and the shape, when you have finished it, 
will be elegant enough to please the taste of a lady.” 

“It is for Mrs. Lethbridge,” said Will; “she wanted 
something to hold cards and letters ; and I took, t.he shape 


”4 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


from a book of drawings which Mr. Lethbridge kindly len 
me. You know Mr. Lethbridge, sir ? He is a very good 
gentleman.” 

“ No, I don’t know him. Who is he ? ” 

“ Our clergyman, sir. This is the book.” 

To Kenelm’s surprise, it was a work on Pompeii, and 
contained woodcuts of the implements and ornaments, mo¬ 
saics and frescoes, found in that memorable little city. 

‘H see this is your model,” said Kenelm ; “ what the> 
call a patera, and rather a famous one. You are copying it 
much more truthfully than I should have supposed it pos¬ 
sible to do in substituting basket-work for bronze. But yon 
observe that much of the beauty of this shallow bowl de¬ 
pends on the two doves perched on the brim. You can’t 
manage that ornamental addition.” 

“ Mrs. Lethbridge thought of putting there two little 
stuffed canary-birds.” 

“ Did she ? Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Kenelm. 

“ But somehow,” continued Will, “ I did not like that, 
and I made bold to say so.” 

“ Why did not you like it ? ” 

“Well, I don’t know ; but I did not think it would be the 
right thing.” 

“ It would have been very bad taste, and spoilt the ef¬ 
fect of your basket-work ; and I’ll endeavor to explain why. 
You see here, in the next page, a drawing of a very beauti¬ 
ful statue. Of course this statue is intended to be a repre¬ 
sentation of nature—but nature idealized. You don’t know 
the meaning of that hard word, idealized, and very few peo¬ 
ple do. But it means the performance of a something in 
art according to the idea which a man’s mind forms to it¬ 
self out of a something in nature. That something in nature 
must, of course, have been carefully studied before the man 
can work out anything in art by which it is faitlifully repre¬ 
sented. The artist, for instance, who made that statue, 
must have known the proportions of the human frame. He 
must have made studies of various parts of it—heads and 
hands, and arms and legs, and so forth~^and, having done 
so, he then puts together all his various studies of details, so 
as to form a new whole, which is intended to personate aq 
idea formed in bis own mind. Do yoji go with me ? ” 

“ Partly, sir ; but I am puzzled a little still.” 

“ Of course you are ; but you’ll puzzle yourself right if 

^Qu thinly oyer what I. say. Now if, id Ql'cler to this 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


”5 


Btatue, which is composed of metal or stone, more natural, 
I stuck on it a wig of real hair, would not you feel at once 
that I had spoilt the work—that, as you clearly express it, 
‘it would not be the right thing ’?—and, instead of making 
the work of art more natural, I should have made it laugh¬ 
ably unnatural, by forcing insensibly upon the mind of 
him who looked at it the contrast between the real life, re¬ 
presented by a wig of actual hair, and the artistic life, 
represented by an idea embodied in stone or metal. The 
higher the work of art (that is, the higher the idea it repre¬ 
sents as a new combination of details taken from nature), 
the more it is degraded or spoilt by an attempt to give it a 
kind of reality which is out of keeping with the materials 
employed. But the same rule applies to everything in art, 
however humble. And a couple of stuffed canary-birds at 
the brim of a basket-work imitation of a Greek drinking- 
cup would be as bad taste as a wig from the barber’s on the 
head of a marble statue of Apollo.” 

“ I see,” said Will, his head downcast, like a man ponder¬ 
ing—“ at least I think I see ; and I’m very much obliged to 
y'ou, sir.” 

Mrs. Somers had long since returned with the work-bas¬ 
ket, but stood with it in her hands, not daring to interrupt 
the gentleman, and listening to his discourse with as much 
patience and as little comprehension as if it had been one 
of the controversial sermons upon Ritualism with which on 
great occasions Mr. Lethbridge favored his congregation. 

Kenelm having now exhausted his critical lecture—from 
which certain poets and novelists, who contrive to carica¬ 
ture the ideal by their attempt to put wigs of real hair upon 
the heads of stone statues, might borrow a useful hint or two 
if thev would condescend to do so, which is not likely—per¬ 
ceived Mrs. Somers standing by him, took from her the bas¬ 
ket, which was really very pretty and elegant, subdivided 
into various compartments for the implements in use among 
ladies, and bestowed on it a well-merited eulogium. 

“The young lady means to finish it herself with ribbons 
and line it with satin,” said Mrs. Somers, proudly. 

“ The ribbons will not be amiss, sir ? ” said Will, inter¬ 
rogatively. 

“Not at all. Your natural sense of the fitness of things, 
tells you that ribbons go well with straw and light straw- 
like work such as this ; though you would not put ribbons 
on those rude hampers and game-baskets in the corner 


ri6 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Like to like ; a stout cord goes suitably with them ; just as 
a poet who understands his art employs pretty expressions 
for poems intended to be pretty and suit a fashionable 
drawing-room, and carefully shuns them to substitute a 
simple cord for poems intended to be strong and travel far, 
despite of rough usage by the way. But you really ought 
to make much more money by this fancy work than you 
could as a day laborer.” 

Will sighed. “ Not in this neighborhood, sir. I might 
in a town.” 

“Why not move to a town, then V 

The young man colored,, and shook his head. 

Kenelm turned appealingly to Mrs. Somers. “ I’ll be 
willing to go wherever it would be best for my boy, sir. 

But-” and here she checked herself, and a tear trickled 

silently down her cheeks. 

Will resumed, in a more cheerful tone, “ I am get¬ 
ting a little known now, and work will come if one waits 
for it.” 

'Kenelm did not deem it courteous or discreet to intrude 
further on Will’s confidence in the first interview ; and he 
began to feel, more than he had done at first, not only the 
dull pain of the bruises he had received in the recent combat, 
but also somewhat more than the weariness which follows 
a long summer-day’s work in the open air. He therefore, 
rather abruptly, now took his leave, saying that he should 
be very glad of a few specimens of Will’s ingenuity and skill, 
and would call or write to give directions about them. 

Just as he came in sight of Tom Bowie’s house on his 
way back to Mr. Saunderson’s, Kenelm saw a man mount¬ 
ing a pony that stood tied up at the gate, and exchanging a 
few words with a respectable-looking woman before he rode 
on. He was passing by Kenelm without notice, when that 
philosophical vagrant stopped him, saying, “ If I am not 
mistaken, sir, you are the doctor. There is not much the 
matter with Mr. Bowles ? ” 

The doctor shook his head. “ I can’t say yet. He has 
had a very ugly blow somewhere.” 

“ It was just under the left ear. I did not aim at that 
exact spot ; but Bowles unluckily swerved a little aside at 
the moment, perhaps in surprise at a tap between his eyes 
immediately preceding it ; and so, as you say, it was an ugly 
blow that he received. But if it cures him of the habit of 
giving ugly blows to other people who Qa.n bear them less 



kki^ELM cm'LUMGLV, 


gafely, perhaps it may be all for his good, as, h6 doubt, sir, 
your schoolmaster said when he flogged you.” 

“ Bless my soul! are you the man who fought with him— 
you ? I can’t believe it.” 

“Why not ? ” 

“Why not ! So far as I can judge by this light, though 
you are a tall fellow, Tom Bowles must be a much heavier 
weight than you are.” 

“ Tom Spring was the champion of England ; and accord¬ 
ing to the records of his weight, which History has pre¬ 
served in her archives, Tom Spring was a lightor weight 
than I am.” 

“ But are you a prize-fighter ? ” 

“ I am as much that as I am anything else. But to re¬ 
turn to Mr. Bowles : was it necessary to bleed him ?” 

“ Yes ; he was unconscious, or nearly so, when I came. 
I took away a few ounces, and I am happy to say he is now 
sensible, but must be kept very quiet.” 

“No doubt ; but I hope he will be well enough to see 
me to-morrow.” 

“ I hope so too ; but I can’t say yet. Quarrel about a 
girl—eh ? ” 

“ It was not about money. And I suppose if there were 
no money and no women in the world, there would be no 
quarrels, and very few doctors. Good-night, sir.” 

“It is a strange thing to me,” said Kenelm, as he now 
opened the garden-gate of Mr. Saunderson’s homestead, 
“ that though I’ve had nothing to eat all day, except a few 
pitiful sandwiches, I don’t feel the least hungry. Such 
arrest of the lawful duties of the digestive organs never hap¬ 
pened to me before. There must be something weird and 
ominous in it.” 

On entering the parlor, the family party, though they 
had long since finished supper, were still seated round the 
table. They all rose at sight of Kenelm. The fame of his 
achievements had preceded him. He checked the congra¬ 
tulations, the compliments, and the questions which the 
hearty farmer rapidly heaped upon him, with a melancholic 
exclamation, “ But I have lost my appetite ! No honors 
can compensate for that. Let me go to bed peaceably, and 
perhaps in the magic land of sleep Nature may restore me 
by a dream of supper.” 


KEISfELM CHILLWGLY, 


fi8 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Kenelm rose betimes the next morning, somewhat stiH 
and uneasy, but sufficiently recovered to feel ravenous. 
Fortunately, one of the young ladies who attended specially 
to the dairy was already up, and supplied the starving hero 
with a vast bowl of bread and milk. He then strolled into 
the hay-field, in which there was now very little left to do, 
and but few hands besides his own were employed. Jessie 
was not there. Kenelm was glad of that. By nine o’clock 
his work was over, and the farmer and his men were in the 
yard completing the ricks. Kenelm stole away unobserved, 
bent on a round of visits. He called first at the village shop 
kept by Mrs. Bawtrey, which Jessie had pointed out to him 
on pretence of buying a gaudy neckerchief, and soon, thanks, 
to his habitual civility, made familiar acquaintance with the 
shop-woman. She was a little sickly old lady, her head shak¬ 
ing, as with palsy, somewhat deaf, but still shrewd and sharp, 
rendered mechanically so by long habits of shrewdness and 
sharpness. She became very communicative, spoke freely 
of her desire to give up the shop and pass the rest of her 
days with a sister, widowed like herself, in a neighboring 
town. Since she had lost her husband, the field and orchard 
attached to the shop had ceased to be profitable, and be¬ 
come a great care and trouble; and the attention the shop 
required was wearisome. But she had twelve years unex¬ 
pired of the lease granted for twenty-one years to her hus¬ 
band on low terms, and she wanted a premium for its trans¬ 
fer, and a purchaser for the stock of the shop. Kenelm 
soon drew from her the amount of the sum she required for 
all-;^45- 

“You ben’t thinking of it for yourself ?” she asked, put¬ 
ting on her spectacles and examining him with care. 

“ Perhaps so, if one could get a decent living out of it 
Do you keep a book of your losses and gains ? ” 

“ In course, sir,” she said, proudly. “ I kept the books 
in my goodman’s time, and he was one who could find out 
if there was a farthing wrong, for he had been in a lawyer’s 
office when a lad.” 

“ Why did he leave a lawyer’s office to keeo a little shon?" 


kEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


i!9 

‘‘Well he was born a farmer’s son in this neighborhood, 
and he always had a hankering after the country, and--and 
besides that-” 

“ Yes.” 

“ ril tell you the truth ; he had got into a way of drinking 
speerrits, and he was a good young man, and wanted to break 
himself of it, and he took the temperance oath ; but it was 
too hard on him, for he could not break himself of the com¬ 
pany that led him into liquor. And so, one time when he 
came into the neighborhood to see his parents for the Christ¬ 
mas holiday, he took a bit of liking to me ; and my father, 
who was Squire Travers’s bailiff, had just died, and left me a 
little money. And so, somehow or other, we came together, 
and got this house and the land from the Squire on lease 
very reasonable ; and my goodman, being well eddycated, 
and much thought of, and never being tempted to drink, 
now that he had a missus to keep him in order, had a many 
little things put into his way. He could help to measure 
timber, and knew about draining, and he got some book¬ 
keeping from the farmers about; and we kept cows and pigs 
and poultry, and so we did very well, specially as the Lord 
was merciful, and sent us no children.” 

“ And what does the shop bring in a year since your hus¬ 
band died ?” 

“You had best judge for yourself. Will you look at the 
i)ook, and take a peep at the land and apple-trees? But 
they’s been neglected since my goodman died.” 

In another minute the heir of the Chillinglys was seated 
in a neat little back parlor, with a pretty, though confined, 
view of the orchard and grass slope behind it, and bending 
over Mrs. Bawtrey’s ledger. 

Some customers for cheese and bacon coming now into 
the shop, the old woman left him to his studies. Though 
they were not of a nature familiar to him, he brought to 
them, at least, that general clearness of head and quick seiz¬ 
ure of important points which are common to most men who 
have gone through some disciplined training of intellect 
and been accustomed to extract the pith and marrow out of 
many books on many subjects. The result of his examina¬ 
tion was satisfactory ; there appeared to him a clear balance 
of gain from the shop alone of somewhat over ^40 a year, 
taking the average of the last three years. Closing the book, 
he then let himself out of the window into the orchard, and 
thence into the neighboring grass field. Both were, indeed, 



jtEmLM cmLimcLV, 


no 

much neglected ; the trees wanted pruning, the field matt 
ure. But the soil was evidently of rich loam, and the fruit* 
trees were abundant and of ripe age, generally looking 
healthy in spite of neglect. With the quick intuition of a 
man born and bred in the country and picking up scraps 
of rural knowledge unconsciously, Kenelm convinced him^ 
self that the land, properly managed, would far more than 
cover the rent, rates, tithes, and all incidental outgoings, leav« 
ing the profits of the shop as the clear income of the occu-. 
piers. And no doubt, with clever young people to manage 
the shop, its profits might be increased. 

Not thinking it necessary to return at present to Mrs. 
Bawtrey’s, Kenelm now bent his way to Tom Bowles’s. 

The house-door was closed. At the summons of his 
knock it was quickly opened by a tall, stout, remarkably 
fine-looking woman, who might have told fifty years and car¬ 
ried them off lightly on her ample shoulders. She was 
dressed very respectably in black, her brown hair braided 
simply under a neat tight-fitting cap. Her features were^ 
aquiline and very regular—altogether, there was something 
about her majestic and Cornelia-like. She might have sat 
for the model of that Roman matron, except for the fairness 
of her Anglo-Saxon complexion. 

“What’s your pleasure she asked, in a cold and some¬ 
what stern voice. 

“ Ma’am,” answered Kenelm, uncovering, “ I have called 
to see Mr. Bowles, and I sincerely hope he is well enough to 
let me do so.” 

“ No, sir, he is not well enough for that; he is lying down 
in his own room, and must be kept quiet.” 

“ May I then ask you the favor to let me in ? I would 
say a few words to you, who are his mother, if I mistake 
not.” 

Mrs. Bowles paused a moment, as if in doubt ; but she 
was at no loss to detect in Kenelm’s manner something su¬ 
perior to the fashion of his dress, and, supposing the visit 
might refer to her son’s professional business, she opened 
the door wider, drew aside to let him pass first, and when he 
stood midway in the parlor, requested him to take a seat, 
and, to set him the example, seated herself. 

“ Ma’am ,” said Kenelm, “ do not regret to have admitted 
me, and do not think hardly of me, when I inform you that 
1 am the unfortunate cause of your son’s accident,” 

Mrs. Bowles rose with a start. 


Kr^USTELM CmLtrkGlV, 


** You’re the man who beat my boy?” 

“No, ma’am, do not say I beat him. He is not beaten. 
He is so brave and so strong that he would easily have beat* 
en me if I had not, by good luck, knocked him down before 
he had time to do so. Pray, ma’am, retain your seat, and 
listen to me patiently for a few moments.” 

Mrs. Bowles, with an indignant heave of her Juno-like 
bosom, and with a superbly haughty expression of counte¬ 
nance, which suited well with its aquiline formation, tacitly 
obeyed. 

“You will allow, ma’am,” recommenced Kenelm, “that 
this is not the first time by many that Mr. Bowles has come 
to blows with another man. Am I not right in that assump¬ 
tion ? ” 

“ My son is of a hasty temper,” replied Mrs. Bowles, re¬ 
luctantly, “ and people should not aggravate him.” 

“ You grant the fact, then ? ” said Kenelm, imperturbably, 
but with a polite inclination of head. “ Mr. Bowles has 
often been engaged in these encounters, and in all of them 
it is quite clear that he provoked the battle ; for you must 
be aware that he is not the sort of man to whom any other 
would be disposed to give the first blow. Yet, after these 
little incidents had occurred, and Mr. Bowles had, say, half 
killed the person who aggravated him, you did not feel 
any resentment against that person, did you ? Nay, if 
he had wanted nursing, you would have gone and nursed 
him.” 

“ I don’t know as to nursing,” said Mrs. Bowles, begin¬ 
ning to lose her dignity of mien ; “ but certainly I should 
have been very sorry for him. And as for Tom—though I 
say it who should not say it—he has no more malice than a 
baby—he’d go and make it up with any man, however badly 
he had beaten him.” 

“Just as I supposed ; and if the man had sulked and 
would not make it up, Tom would have called him a bad 
fellow, and felt inclined to beat him again.” 

Mrs. Bowles’s face relaxed into a stately smile. 

“ Well, then,” pursued Kenelm, “ I do but humbly imitate 
Mr. Bowles, and I come to make it up and shake hands with 
him.” 

“ No, sir—no,” exclaimed Mrs. Bowles, though in a low 
voice, and turning pale. “ Don’t think of it. ’Tis not the 
blows—he’ll get over those fast enough ; ’tis his pride that’s 
hurt ; and if he saw you there might be mischief. But you’re 


tit 


KEN ELM CHILLLNGLY, 


a stranger, and going away ;—do go soon—do keep out ol 
his way—do ! ” And the mother clasped her hands. 

“ Mrs. Bowles,” said Kenelm, with a change of voice and 
aspect—a voice and aspect so earnest and impressive that 
they stilled and awed her—“ will you not help me to save 
your son from the dangers into which that hasty temper and 
that mischievous pride may at any moment hurry him ? Does 
it never occur to you that these are the causes of terrible 
crime, bringing terrible punishment ; and that against brute 
force, impelled by savage passions, society protects itself by 
ihe hulks and the gallows ? ” 

“ Sir, how dare you- 

“ Hush ! If one man kill another in a moment of ungov¬ 
ernable wrath, that is a crime which, though heavily pun¬ 
ished by the conscience, is gently dealt with by the law, 
which calls it only manslaughter ; but if a motive to the 
violence—such as jealousy or revenge—can be assigned, and 
there should be no witness by to prove that the violence was 
not premeditated, then the law does not call it manslaughter, 
but murder. Was it not that thought which made you so 
imploringly exclaim, ‘ Go soon ; keep out of his way ’'t ” 

The woman made no answer, but, sinking back in her 
chair, gasped for breath. 

“Nay, madam,” resumed Kenelm, mildly; “banish your 
fears. If you will help me I feel sure that T can save your 
son from such perils, and I only ask you to let me save him. 
I am convinced that he has a good and noble nature, and he 
is worth saving.” As he thus said he took her hand. She 
resigned it to him and returned the pressure, all her pride 
softening as she began to weep. 

At length, when she recovered voice, she said : 

“ It is all along of that girl. He was not so till she 
crossed him, and made him half mad. He is not the same 
man since then—my poor Tom ! ” 

“ Do you know that he has given me his word, and before 
his fellow-villagers, that if he had the worst of the fight he 
would never molest Jessie Wiles again ?” 

“Yes, he told me so himself ; and it is that which weighs 
on him now. He broods, and broods, and mutters, and will 
not be comforted ; and—and I do fear that he means re¬ 
venge. And, again, I implore you keep out of his way.” 

“ It is not revenge on me that he thinks of. Suppose I 
go and am seen no more, do you think in your own heart 
that that girl’s life is sa.iG,22L 


KEN ELM CHILLINOLV. 




“What ! My Tom kill a woman ! 

“ Do you never read in your newspaper of a man who 
kills his sweetheart, or the girl who refuses to be his sweet¬ 
heart ? At all events, you yourself do not approve this 
frantic suit of his. If I have heard rightly, you have wished 
to get Tom out of the village for some time, till Jessie Wiles 
is—we’ll say, married, or gone elsewhere for good.” 

“Yes, indeed, 1 have wished and prayed for it many’s the 
time, both for her sake and for Ids. And I am sure I don’t 
know what we shall do if he stays, for he has been losing 
custom fast. The Squire has taken away his, and so have 
many of the farmers ; and such a trade as it was in his good 
father’s time ! And if he would go, his uncle, the Veterinary 
at Luscombe, would take him into partnership ; for he has 
no son of his own, and he knows how clever Tom is ;—there 
ben’t a man who knows more about horses ; and cows too, 
for the matter of that.” 

“ And if Luscombe is a large place, the business there 
must be more profitable than it can be here, even if Tom 
got back his custom ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! five times as good—if he would but go ; but 
he’ll not hear of it.” 

“ Mrs. Bowles, I am very much obliged to you for your 
confidence, and I feel sure that all will end happily, now we 
have had this talk. I’ll not press farther on you at present. 
Tom will not stir out, I suppose, till the evening.” 

“Ah, sir, he seems as if he had no heart to stir out again, 
unless for something dreadful.” 

“ Courage ! I will call again in the evening, and then 
you just take me up to Tom’s room, and leave me there to 
make, friends with him as I have with you. Don’t say a 
word about me in the meanwhile.” 

“ But-” 

“ ‘ But,’ Mrs. Bowles, is a word that cools many a warm 
impulse, stifles many a kindly thought, puts a dead stop to 
many a brotherly deed. Nobody would ever love his neigh^ 
bor as himself if he listened to all the Buts that could be 
said on the other side of the question.’* 



kENkLM CHILLIMGIY, 


UK 


CHAPTER XV. 

Kenelm now bent his way towards the parsonage, but 
just as he neared its glebe-lands he met a gentleman whose 
dress was so evidently clerical that he stopped and said : 

‘‘Have I the honor to address Mr. Lethbridge ?” 

“ That is my name,” said the clergyman, smiling pleas¬ 
antly. “ Anything I can do for you ? ” 

“Yes, a great deal, if you will let me talk to you about 
a few of your parishioners.” 

“ My parishioners ! 1 beg your pardon, but you are quite 
a stranger to me, and, I should think, to the parish.” 

“ To the parish—no, I am quite at home in it ; and I hon¬ 
estly believe that it has never known a more officious busy¬ 
body thrusting himself into its most private affairs.” 

Mr. Lethbridge stared, and, after a short pause, said, 
“ I have heard of a young man who has been staying at Mr. 
Saunderson’s, and is indeed at this moment the talk of the 
village. You are-” 

“ That young man. Alas ! yes.” 

“Nay,” said Mr. Lethbridge, kindly, “I cannot myselt, 
as a minister of the gospel, approve of your profession, 
and, if I might take the liberty, I would try and dissuade 
you from it ; but still, as for the one act of freeing a poor 
girl from the most scandalous persecution, and administer¬ 
ing, though in a rough way, a lesson to a savage brute who 
has long been the disgrace and terror of the neighborhood, 
I cannot honestly say that it has my condemnation. The 
moral sense of a community is generally a right one—you 
have won the praise of the village. Under all the circum¬ 
stances, I do not withhold mine. You woke this morning 
and found yourself famous. Do not sigh ‘ Alas.’ ” 

“ Lord Byron woke one morning and found himself 
famous, and the result was that he signed ‘ Alas ’ for the 
rest of his life. If there be two things which a wise man 
should avoid, they are fame and love. Heaven defend me 
from both ! ” 

Again the parson stared ; but being of compassionate 
nature, and inclined to take mild views of everything that 
belongs to humanity, he said, with a slight inclination of 
his head * 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


12S 


“ I have always heard that the Americans in general 
enjoy the advantage of a better education than we do in 
England, and their reading public is infinitely larger than 
ours ; still, when I hear one of a calling not highly con¬ 
sidered in this country for intellectual cultivation or ethical 
philosophy cite Lord Byron, and utter a sentiment at vari' 
ance with the impetuosity of inexperienced youth, but 
which has much to commend it in the eyes of a reflective 
Christian impressed with the nothingness of the .objects 
mostly coveted by the human heart, I am surprised, and 
—Oh, my dear young friend, surely your education might 
fit you for something better ! ” 

It was among the maxims of Kenelm Chillingly’s creed 
that a sensible man should never allow himself to be sur¬ 
prised ; but here he was, to use a popular idiom, “ taken 
aback,” and lowered himself to the rank of ordinary minds 
by saying simply, “ I don’t understand.” 

“ I see,” resumed the clergyman, shaking his head 
gently, “ as I always suspected, that in the vaunted educa¬ 
tion bestowed on Americans the elementary principles of 
Christian right and wrong are more neglected than they 
are among our own humble classes. Yes, my young friend, 
you may quote poets, you may startle me by remarks on 
the nothingness of human fame and human love, derived 
from the precepts of heathen poets, and yet not understand 
with what compassion, and, in the judgment of most sober- 
minded persons, with what contempt, a human being who 
practises your vocation is regarded.” 

“ Have I a vocation ? ” said Kenelm. “ I am very glad 
to hear it. What is my vocation ? and why must I be an 
American ?” 

“Why—surely I am not misinformed. You are the 
American—I forget his name—who has come over to con¬ 
test the belt of prize-fighting with the champion of Eng¬ 
land. You are silent; you hang your head. By your 
appearance, your length of limb, your gravity of counte¬ 
nance, your evident education, you confirm the impression 
of your birth. Your prowess has proved your profession.” 

“ Reverend Sir,” said Kenelm, with his unutterable 
seriousness of aspect, “ I am on my travels in search of 
truth and in flight from shams, but so great a take-in as 
myself I have not yet encountered. Remember me in your 
prayers. I am not an American ; I am not a prize-fightei. 

I honor the first as the citizen of a grand republic trying 


126 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


his best to accomplish an experiment in government in 
which he will find the very prosperity he tends to create 
will sooner or later destroy his experiment. I honor the 
last because strength, courage, and sobriety are essential to 
the prize-fighter and are among the chiefest ornaments of 
kings and heroes. But I am neither one nor the other. 
And all 1 can say for myself is, that I belong to that very 
vague class commonly called English gentlemen, and that, 
by birth and education, I have a right to ask you to shake 
hands with me as such.” 

Mr. Lethbridge stared again, raised his hat, bowed, and 
shook hands. 

“You will allow me now to speak to you about your 
parishioners. You take an interest in Will Somers—so do I. 
He is clever and ingenious. But it seems there is not 
sufficient demand here for his baskets, and he would, no 
doubt, do better in some neighboring town. Why does he 
object to move ? ” 

“ I fear that poor Will would pine away to death if he 
lost sight of that pretty girl for whom you did such 
chivalrous battle with Tom Bowles.” 

“ The unhappy man, then, is really in love with Jessie 
Wiles ? And do you think she no less really cares for 
him ?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ And would make him a good wife—that is, as wives go?” 

“ A good daughter generally makes a good wife. And 
there is not a father in the place who has a better child than 
Jessie is to hers. She really is a girl of a superior nature. 
She was the cleverest pupil at our school, and my wife is 
much attached to her. But she has something better than 
mere cleverness ; she has an excellent heart.” 

“ What you say confirms my own impressions. And 
the girl’s father has no other objection to Will Somers than 
his fear that Will could not support a wife and family 
comfortably ? ” 

“ He can have no other objection save that which would 
apply equally to all suitors. I mean his fear lest Tom 
Bowles might do her some mischief if he knew she was 
about to marry any one else.” 

“You think, then, that Mr. Bowles is a thoroughly bad 
and dangerous person ? ” 

“ Thoroughly bad and dangerouSj and worse since hCJ 
has taken to drinkine-.” 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


127 


“ I suppose he did not take to drinking till he lost his 
wits for Jessie Wiles ? ” 

“No, I don’t think he did.” 

“ But, Mr. Lethbridge, have you never used your in¬ 
fluence over this dangerous man ? ” 

“ Of course I did try, but I only got insulted. He is a 
godless animal, and has not been inside a church for years. 
He seems to have got a smattering of such vile learning as 
may be found in infidel publications, and I doubt if he 
has any religion at all.” 

“ Poor Polyphemus ! no wonder his Galatea shuns him ! ” 

“ Old Wiles is terribly frightened, and asked my wife to 
find Jessie a place as servant at a distance. But Jessie can’t 
bear the thoughts of leaving.” 

“ For the same reason which attaches Will Somers to the 
native soil ? ” 

“ My wife thinks so.” 

“ Do you believe that if Tom Bowles were out of the 
way, and Jessie and Will were man and wife, they could earn 
a sufficient livelihood as successors to Mrs. ^Bawtrey. Will 
adding the profits of his basket-work to those of the shop 
and land ? ” 

“ A sufficient livelihood ! of course. They would be 
quite rich. I know the shop used to turn a great deal of 
money. The old woman, to be sure, is no longer up to busi¬ 
ness, but still she retains a good custom.” 

“ Will Somers seems in delicate health. Perhaps if he 
had less weary struggle for a livelihood, and no fear of losing 
Jessie, his health would improve.” 

“ His life would be saved, sir.” 

“Then,” said Kenelm, with a heavy sigh and a face as 
long as an undertaker’s, “though I myself entertain a pro¬ 
found compassion for that disturbance to our mental equi¬ 
librium which goes by the name of ‘ love,’ and I am the last 
person who ought to add to the cares and sorrows which 
marriage entails upon its victims—I say nothing of the woes 
destined to those whom marriage usually adds to a popula¬ 
tion already overcrowded—I fear that I must be the means 
of bringing these two love-birds into the same cage. I am 
ready to purchase the shop and its appurtenances on their 
behalf, on the condition that you will kindly obtain the con¬ 
sent of Jessie’s father to their union. As for my brave friend 
Tom Bowles, I undertake to deliver them and the village 
from that exuberant nature, whicJi requires a larger field for 


I2S 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


its energies. Pardon me for not letting you interrupt me. 

I have not yet finished what I have to say. Allow me to 
ask if Mrs. Grundy resides in this village.” 

“ Mrs. Grundy ! Oh, I understand. Of course ; wher¬ 
ever a woman has a tongue, there Mrs. Grundy has a home.” 

“ And seeing that Jessie is very pretty, and that in walk¬ 
ing with her I encountered Mr. Bowles, might not Mrs. 
Grundy say, with a toss of her head, ‘ that it was not out of 
pure charity that the stranger had been so liberal to Jessie 
Wiles ’ ? But if the money for the shop be paid through 
you to Mrs. Bawtrey, and you kindly undertake all the con¬ 
tingent arrangements, Mrs. Grundy will have nothing to 
say against any one.” 

Mr. Lethbridge gazed with amaze at the solemn counte¬ 
nance before him. 

“ Sir,” he said, after a long pause, “ I scarcely know how 
to express my admiration of a generosity so noble, so 
thoughtful, and accompanied with a delicacy, and, indeed, 
with a wisdom, which—which-” 

“ Pray, my dear sir, do not make me still more ashamed 
of myself than I am at present, for an interference in love- 
matters quite alien to my own convictions as to the best 
mode of making an ‘ Approach to the Angels.’ To con¬ 
clude this business, I think it better to deposit in your hands 
the sum of ^£ 45 , for which Mrs. Bawtrey has agreed to sell 
the remainder of her lease and stock-in-hand ; but of course 
you will not make anything public till I am gone, and Tom 
Bowles too. I hope I may get him away to-morrow ; but I 
shall know to-night when I can depend upon his departure 
—and till he goes I must stay.” 

As he spoke, Kenelm transferred from his pocket-book to 
Mr. Lethbridge’s hand bank-notes to the amount specified. 

“May I at least ask the name of the gentleman who 
honors me with his confidence, and has bestowed so much 
happiness on members of my flock ? ” 

“ There is no great reason why I should not tell you my 
name, but I see no reason why 1 should. You remember 
Talleyrand’s advice—‘ If you are in doubt whether to write 
a letter or not—don’t.’ The advice applies to many doubts 
in life besides that of letter-writing. Farewell, sir ! ” 

“A most extraordinary young man,” muttered the par¬ 
son, gazing at the receding form of the tall stranger ; then 
gently shaking his head, he added, “ Quite an original.” He 
was contented with that solution of the difficulties which 
had puzzled him. May the reader be the same. 



KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Iig 


CHAPTER XVI. 

After the family dinner, at which the farmer’s guest 
displayed more than his usual powers of appetite, Kenelm 
followed his host towards the stackyard, and said : 

“ My dear Mr. Saunderson, though you have no longer 
any work for me to do, and I ought not to trespass further 
on your hospitality, yet if I might stay with you another 
day or so I should be very.grateful.” 

“My dear lad,” cried the farmer, in whose estimation 
Kenelm had risen prodigiously since the victory over Tom 
Bowles, “you are welcome to stay as long as you like, and 
we shall be all sorry when you go. Indeed, at all events, 
you must stay over Saturday, for you shall go with us to the 
Squire’s harvest-supper. It will be a pretty sight, and my 
girls are already counting on you for a dance.” 

“ Saturday—the day after to-morrow. You are very 
kind ; but merry-makings are not much in my way, and I 
think I shall be on my road before you set off to the 
Squire’s supper.” 

“ Pooh ! you shall stay ; and, I say, young un, if you 
want more to do, I have a job for you quite in your line.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ Thrash my ploughman. He has been insolent this 
morning, and he is the biggest fellow’ in the county, next to 
Tom Bowles.” 

Here the farmer laughed heartily, enjoying his own joke. 

“Thank you for nothing,” said Kenelm, rubbing his 
bruises. “A burnt child dreads the fire.” 

The young man wandered alone into the fields. The 
day was becoming overcast, and the clouds threatened rain. 
The air was exceedingly still ; the landscape, missing the 
sunshine, w’ore an aspect of gloomy solitude. Kenelm came 
to the banks of the rivulet not far from the spot on which 
the farmer had first found him. There he sat down, and 
leant his cheek on his hand, with eyes fixed on the still and 
darkened stream lapsing mournfully away; sorrow entered 
into his heart and tinged its musings. 

“ Is it then true,” said he, soliloquizing, “that I am born 
to pass through life utterly alone ; asking, indeed, for no 


130 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


sister-half of myself, disbelieving its possibility, shrinking 
Irom the thought of it—half scorning, half pitying those 
who sigh for it ?—thing unattainable—better sigh for the 
moon! 

“Yet, if other men sigh for it, why do I stand apart from 
them ? If the world be a stage, and all the men and women 
in it merely players, am I to be the solitary spectator, with 
no part in the drama and no interest in the vicissitudes of 
its plot ? Many there are, no doubt, who covet as little as 
I do the part of ‘Lover,’ ‘with a woeful ballad made to his 
mistress’ eyebrow; ’ but then they covet some other part in 
the drama, such as that of Soldier ‘bearded as a pard,’ or 
that of Justice ‘ in fair round belly with fat capon lined.’ 
But me no ambition fires—I have no longing either to rise 
or to shine. I don’t desire to be a colonel, nor an admiral, 
nor a member of Parliament, nor an alderman; I do not 
yearn for the fame of a wit, or a poet, or a philosopher, or 
a diner-out, or a crack shot at a rifle-match or a battue. De¬ 
cidedly I am the one looker-on, the one bystander, and havft 
no more concern with the active world than a stone has. It 
is a horrible phantasmal crotchet of Goethe’s, that origi¬ 
nally we were all monads, little segregated atoms adrift in 
the atmosphere, and carried hither and thither by forces 
over which we had no control, especially by the attraction 
of other monads, so that one monad, compelled by porcine 
monads, crystallizes into a pig; another, hurried along by 
heroic monads, becomes a lion or an Alexander. Now it is 
quite clear,” continued Kenelm, shifting his position and 
crossing the right leg over the left, “that a monad intended 
or fitted for some other planet may, on its way to that desti¬ 
nation, be encountered by a current of other monads blow¬ 
ing earthward, and be caught up in the stream and whirled 
on, till, to the marring of its whole proper purpose and 
scene of action, it settles here—conglomerated into a baby. 
Probably that lot has befallen me : my monad, meant for 
another region in space, has been dropped into this, where 
it can never be at home, never amalgamate with other 
monads nor comprehend why they are in such a perpetual 
fidget. I declare I know no more why the minds of human 
beings should be so restlessly agitated about things which, 
as most of them own, give more pain than pleasure, than I 
understand why that swarm of gnats, which has such a very 
short time to live, does not give itself a moment’s repose, 
but goes up and down, rising and falling as if it were on 3 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


*31 


seesaw, and making as much noise about its insignificant 
alternations of ascent and descent as if it were the hum of 
men. And yet, perhaps, in another planet my monad would 
have frisked, and jumped, and danced, and seesawed with 
congenial monads, as contentedly and as sillily as do the 
monads of men and gnats in this alien Vale of Tears.” 

Kenelm had just arrived at that conjectural solution of 
his perplexities, when a voice was heard singing, or rather 
modulated to that kind of chant between recitative and song 
which is so pleasingly effective where the intonations are 
pure and musical. They were so in this instance, and Ken- 
elm’s ear caught every word in the following song: 


CONTENT. 

There are times when the troubles of life are still; 

The bees wandered lost in the depths of June, 

And I paused where the chime of a silver rill 
Sang the linnet and lark to their rest at noon. 

Said my soul, “See how calmly the wavelets glide, 

Though so narrow their way to their ocean-vent: 

And the world that I traverse is wide, is wide. 

And yet is too narrow to hold content.” 

“O my soul, never say that the world is wide— 

The rill in its banks is less closely pent; 

It is thou who art shoreless on every side, 

And thy width will not let thee inclose content.” 

As the verse ceased, Kenelm lifted his head. But the 
banks of the brook were so curving and so clothed with 
brushwood that for €ome minutes the singer was invisible. 
At last the boughs before him were put aside, and within a 
few paces of himself paused the man to whom he had com¬ 
mended the praises of a beefsteak, instead of those which 
minstrelsy, in its immemorial error, dedicates to love. 

“Sir,” said Kenelm, half rising, “well met once more! 
Have you ever listened to the cuckoo ?” 

“ Sir,” answered the minstrel, “have you ever felt the 
presence of the summer ?” 

“ Permit me to shake hands with you. I admire the 
question by which you have countermet and rebuked my 
own. If you are not in a hurry, will you sit down and let 
us talk ?” 

The niiristrel inclined hi$ head and seated himself. His 


132 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


dog—now emerged from the brushwood—gravely ap¬ 
proached Kenelm, who with greater gravity regarded him 
then, wagging his tail, reposed on his haunches, intent with 
ear erect on a stir in the neighboring reeds, evidently con* 
^idering whether it was caused by a fish or a water-rat 

“ I asked you, sir, if you had ever listened to the cuckoo 
—from no irrelevant curiosity ;—for often on summer dayvS, 
when one is talking with one’s self, and, of course, puzzling 
one’s self, a voice breaks out, as it were, from the heart of 
Nature, so far is it and yet so near ; and it says something, 
very quieting, very musical, so that one is tempted incon¬ 
siderately and foolishly to exclaim, ‘ Nature replies to me.' 
The cuckoo has served me that trick pretty often. Your 
song is a better answer to a man’s self-questionings than he 
can ever get from a cuckoo.” 

“ I doubt that,” said the minstrel. “ Song, at the best, 
is but the echo of some voice from the heart of Nature. 
And if the cuckoo’s note seemed to'you such a voice, it was 
an answer to your questionings perhaps more simply truth¬ 
ful than man can utter, if you had rightly construed the lan¬ 
guage.” 

“My good friend,” answered Kenelm, “what you say 
sounds very prettily; and it contains a sentiment which has 
been amplified by certain crities into that measureless domain 
of dunderheads which is vulgarly called Bosh. But though 
Nature is never silent, though she abuses the privilege of her 
age in being tediously gossiping and garrulous—Nature never 
replies to our questions—she can’t understand an argument 
—she has never read Mr. Mill’s work on Logic. In fact, as 
it is truly said by a great philosopher, ‘ Nature has no mind.* 
Every man who addresses her is compelled to force upon 
her for a moment the loan of his own mind. And if she 
answers a question which his own mind puts to her, it is 
only by such a reply as his own mind teaches to her parrot¬ 
like lips. And as every man has a different mind, so every 
man gets a different answer. Nature is a lying old humbug. ” 

The minstrel laughed merrily ; and his laugh was as sweet 
as his chant. 

“ Poets would have a great deal to unlearn if they are to 
look upon Nature in that light.” 

“ Bad poets would, and so much the better for them and 
their readers.” 

“Are not good poets students of Nature 

‘‘Students of Nature, certainly—as surgeons study 


jce^elm chillingly. 


anatomy by dissecting a dead body. But the good poet, like 
the good surgeon, is the man who considers that study merely 
as the necessary ABC, and not as the all-in-all essential to 
skill in his practice. I do not give the fame of a good sur¬ 
geon to a man who fills a book with details, more or less 
accurate, of fibres, and nerves, and muscles ; and I don’t 
give the fame of a good poet to a man who makes an in¬ 
ventory of the Rhine or the Vale of Gloucester. The good 
surgeon and the good poet are they who understand the 
living man. What is that poetry of drama which Aristotle 
justly ranks as the highest? Is it not a poetry in which 
description of inanimate Nature must of necessity be very 
brief and general ; in which even the external form of man 
is so indifferent a consideration that it will vary with each 
actor who performs the part ? A Hamlet may be fair or 
dark. A Macbeth may be short or tall. The merit of 
dramatic poetry consists in the substituting for what is com¬ 
monly' called Nature (viz., external and material Nature) 
creatures intellectual, emotional, but so purely immaterial 
that they may be said to be all mind and soul, accepting 
the temporary loans of any such bodies at hand as actors 
may offer, in order to be made palpable and visible to the 
audience, but needing no such bodies to be palpable and 
visible to readers. The highest kind of poetry is therefore 
that which has least to do with external Nature. But every 
grade has its merit more or less genuinely great, according 
as it instills into Nature that which is not there— the reason 
and the soul of man.” 

“ I am not much disposed,” said the minstrel, “ to ac¬ 
knowledge any one form of poetry to be practically higher 
than another—that is, so far as to elevate the poet who culti¬ 
vates what you call the highest with some success, above the 
rank of the poet who cultivates what you call a very inferior 
school with a success much more triumphant. In theory 
dramatic poetry may be higher than lyric, and ‘Venice Pre¬ 
served ’ is a very successful drama ; but I think Burns a 
greater poet than Otway.” 

“ Possibly he may be ; but I know of no lyrical poet, at 
least among the moderns, who treats less of Nature as the 
mere outward form of things, or more passionately animates 
her framework with his own human heart, than does Robert 
Burns. Do you suppose when a Greek, in some perplexity 
of reason or conscience, addressed a question to the oracular 
oak-leaves of Dodona, that the oak-leaves answered him J 


*34 


ICE 'NELM CHILLINGL V. 


Don’t you rather believe that the question suggested by hiS 
mind was answered by the mind of his fellow-man the priest, 
who made the oak-leaves the mere vehicle of communication, 
as you and I might make such vehicle in a sheet of writing- 
paper. Is not the history of superstition a chronicle of the 
follies of man in attempting to get answers from external 
Nature ?” 

“But,” said the minstrel, “have I not somewhere heard 
or read that the experiments of Science are the answers made 
by Nature to the questions put to her by man ? ” 

“ They are the answers which his own mind suggests to 
her, nothing more. His mind studies the laws of matter, and 
in that study makes experiments on matter ; out of those ex¬ 
periments his mind, according to its previous knowledge or 
natural acuteness, arrives at its own deductions, and hence 
arise the sciences of mechanics and chemistry, etc. But the 
matter itself gives no answer ; the answer varies according to 
the mind that puts the question, and the progress of science 
consists in the perpetual correction of the errors and false¬ 
hoods which preceding minds conceived to be the correct 
answers they received from Nature. It is the supernatural 
within us—viz.. Mind—which can alone guess at the mechan¬ 
ism of the natural—viz.. Matter. A stone cannot question a 
stone.” 

The minstrel made no reply. And there was a long 
silence, broken but by the hum of the insects, the ripple of 
onward waves, and the sigh of the wind through reeds. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

Said Kenelm, at last breaking silence : 

“ Rapiamus, amici, 

Occasionem de die, dumque virent genua, 

Et decet, obducta solvatur fronte senectus ! ’* 

“ Is not that quotation from Horace ? ” asked the minstrel. 
“Yes ; and I made it insidiously, in order to see if you 
had not acquired what is called a classical education.” 

“ I might have received such education, if my tastes and 
my destinies had not withdrawn me in boyhood from studies 



K-p.l^ELM CIlILUErCLV. 


135 


of which I did not then comprehend the full value. But I 
did pick up a smattering of Latin at school; and from time 
to time since I left school, I have endeavored to gain some 
little knowledge of the most popular Latin poets—chiefly, I 
own to my shame, by the help of literal English transla¬ 
tions.” 

“As a poet yourself, I am not sure that it would be aa 
advantage to know a dead language so well that its forms 
and modes, of thought ran, though perhaps unconsciously, 
into those of the living one in which you compose. Horace 
might have been a still better poet if he had not known 
Greek better than you know Latin.” 

“ It is at least courteous in you to say so,” answered the 
singer, with a pleased smile. 

“You would be still more courteous,” said Kenelm, “if 
you would pardon an impertinent question, and tell me 
Avhether it is for a wager that you wander through the land, 
Homer-like, as a wandering minstrel, and allow that intel¬ 
ligent quadruped, your companion, to carry a tray in his 
mouth for the reception of pennies ? ” 

“ No, it is not for a wager; it is a whim of mine, which I 
fancy, from the tone of your conversation, you could under¬ 
stand—being, apparently, somewhat whimsical yourself.” 

“ So far as whim goes, be assured of my sympathy.” 

“Well, then, though I follow a calling by the exercise of 
which I secure a modest income—my passion is verse. If 
the seasons were always summer, and life were always youth, 
I should like to pass through the world singing. But I have 
never ventured to publish any verses of mine. If they fell 
still-born, it would give me more pain than such wounds to 
vanity ought to give to a bearded man ; and if they were 
assailed or ridiculed, it might seriously injure me in my 
practical vocation. That last consideration, were I quite 
alone in the world, might not much weigh on me ; but there 
are others for whose sake I should like to make fortune and 
preserve station. Many years ago—it was in Germany—I 
fell in with a German student who was very poor, and who 
did make money by wandering about the country with lute 
and song. He has since become a poet of no mean popular¬ 
ity, and he has told me that he is sure he found the secret of 
that popularity in habitually consulting popular tastes dur^ 
ing his roving apprenticeship to song. His example strongly 
impressed me. So I began this experiment ; and for several 
years my summers have been all partly spent in this way. 


kemelm chillwgly. 


136 

I am only known, as I think I told you before, in the rounds 
I take, as ‘The Wandering Minstrel.’ I receive the trifling 
moneys that are bestowed on me as proofs of a certain merit. 
I should not be paid by poor people if I did not please ; and 
the songs which please them best are generally those I love 
best myself. For the rest, my time is not thrown away—not 
only as regards bodily health, but healthfulness of mind—all 
the current of one’s ideas becomes so freshened by months of 
playful exercise and varied adventure.” 

“Yes, the adventure is varied enough,” said Kenelm, 
somewhat ruefully; for he felt, in shifting his posture, a 
sharp twdnge of his bruised muscles. “ But don’t you find 
those mischief-makers, the women, always mix themselves 
up with adventure ? ” 

“ Bless them ! of course,” said the minstrel, with a ring¬ 
ing laugh. “ In life, as on the stage, the petticoat interest 
is always the strpngest.” 

“ I don’t agree with you there,” said Kenelm, dryly. 
“And you seem to me to utter a claptrap beneath the rank 
of your understanding. However, this warm weather indis¬ 
poses one to disputation ; and I own that a petticoat, pro¬ 
vided it be red, is not without the interest of color in a pic¬ 
ture.” 

“ Well, young gentleman,” said the minstrel, rising, “the 
day is wearing on, and I must wish you good-bye ; probably, 
if you were to ramble about the country as I do, you would 
see too many pretty girls not to teach you the strength of 
petticoat interest—not in pictures alone; and should I meet 
you again, I may find you writing love-verses yourself.” 

“After a conjecture so unwarrantable, I part company 
with you less reluctantly than I otherwise might do. But I 
hope we shall meet again.” 

“ Your wish flatters me much, but, if we do, pray respect 
the confidence I have placed in you, and regard my wander¬ 
ing minstrelsy and my dog’s tray as sacred secrets. Should 
we not so meet, it is but a prudent reserve on my part if I 
do not give you my right name and address.” 

“There you show the cautious common-sense which be¬ 
longs rarely to lovers of verse and petticoat interest. What 
have you done with your guitar ? ” 

“ I do not pace the roads with that instrument : it is for¬ 
warded to me from town to town under a borrowed name, 
together with other raiment than this, should I have cause 
to drop my character of wandering minstrel.” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. ?37 

The two men here exchanged a cordial shake of the hand. 
And as the minstrel went his way along the river-side, his 
voice in chanting seemed to lend to the wavelets a liveliei 
murmur, to the reeds a less plaintive sigh. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

In his room, solitary and brooding, sat the defeated hero 
of a hundred fights. It was now twilight; but the shutters 
had been partially closed all day, in order to exclude the sun, 
which had never before been unwelcome to Tom Bowles, 
and they still remained so, making the twilight doubly 
twilight, till the harvest moon, rising early, shot its ray 
through the crevice, and forced a silvery track amid the 
shadows of the floor. 

The man’s head drooped on his breast, his strong hands 
rested listlessly on his knees ; his attitude was that of utter 
despondency and prostration. But in the expression of his 
face there were the signs of some dangerous and restless 
thought which belied, not the gloom but, the stillness of the 
posture. His brow, which was habitually open and frank, 
in its defying aggressive boldness, was now contracted into 
deep furrows, and lowered darkly over his downcast, half- 
closed eyes. His lips were so tightly compressed that the 
face lost its roundness, and the massive bone of the jaw 
stood out hard and salient. Now and then, indeed, the lips 
opened, giving vent to a deep, impatient sigh, but they re¬ 
closed as quickly as they had parted. It was one of those 
crises in life which find all the elements that make up a man’s 
former self in lawless anarchy ; in which the Evil One seems 
to enter and direct the storm.; in which a rude untutored 
mind, never before harboring a thought of crime, sees the 
crime start up from an abyss, feels it to be an enemy, yet 
yields to it as a fate. So that when, at the last, some wretch, 
sentenced to the gibbet, shudderingly looks back to the 
moment “ that trembled between two worlds ”—the world 
of the man guiltless, the world of the man guilty—he says 
to the holy, highly educated, rational, passionless priest who 
confesses him and calls him “brother,” “The devil put it 
into my head.” 

At that moment the door opened; at its threshold there 



38 


kenelm chillingly. 


stood the man’s mother—whom he had never allowed to 
influence his conduct, though he loved her well in his rough 
Yvay—and the hated fellow-man whom he longed to see dead 
at his ieet. The door reclosed, the mother Avas gone, with¬ 
out a v^ord, for her tears choked her ; the fellow-man was 
alon with him. Tom Bowles looked up, recognized his 
Yis or, cleared his brow, and rubbed his mighty hands. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Kenelm Chillingly drew a chair close to his antago¬ 
nist’s, and silently laid a hand on his. 

Tom Bowles took up the hand in both his own, turned it 
curiously towards the moonlight, gazed at it, poised it, then 
with a sound between groan and laugh tossed it away as a 
thing hostile but trivial, rose and locked the door, came back 
to his seat, and said bluffly : 

“ What do you want with me now ? ” 

“ I want to ask you a favor.” 

“ Favor ! ” 

“ The greatest which* man can ask from man—friendship. 
You see, my dear Tom,” continued Kenelm, making himself 
quite at home—throwing his arm over the back of Tom’s 
chair, and stretching his legs comfortably as one does by 
one’s own fireside ; “you see, my dear Tom, that men like 
us—young, single, not on the whole bad-looking as men go 
—can find sweethearts in plenty. If one does not like us, 
another will ; sweethearts are sown everywhere like nettles 
and thistles. But the rarest thing in life is a friend. Now, 
tell me frankly, in the course of your wanderings did you 
ever come into a village where you could not have got a 
sweetheart if you had asked for one ; and if, having got a 
sweetheart, you had lost her, do you think you would have 
had any difficulty in finding another ? But have you such a 
thing ii>the world, beyond the pale of your own family, as a 
true friend—a man friend and supposing that you had 
such a friend—a friend who would stand by you through 
thick and thin—who would tell you your faults to your face, 
and praise you for your good qualities behind your back— 
who would do all he could to save you from a danger, and 
all he could to get you out of one,—supposing you had such 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


a friend, and lost him, do you believe that if you lived to thcv 
age of Methuselah you could find another? You don’t an¬ 
swer me ; you are silent Well, Tom, I ask you to be such 
a friend to me, and I will be such a friend to you.” 

Tom was so thoroughly “ taken aback ” by this address 
that he remained dumfounded. But he felt as if the clouds 
in his soul were breaking, and a ray of sunlight were forc¬ 
ing its way through the sullen darkness. At length, how¬ 
ever, the receding rage within him returned, though with 
vacillating step, and he growled between his teeth : 

“ A pretty friend indeed ! robbing me of my girl ! Go 
along with you ! ” 

“ She was not your girl any more than she was or ever 
can be mine.” 

“ What, you ben’t after her ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; I am going to Luscombe, and I ask you 
to come with me. Do you think I am going to leave you 
here?” 

“ What is it to you ? ” 

“ Everything. Providence has permitted me to save you 
from the most lifelong of all sorrows. For—think ! Can 
any sorrow be more lasting than had been yours if you had 
attained your wish ; if you had forced or frightened a woman 
to be your partner till death do part—you loving her, she 
loathing you ; you conscious, night and day, that your very 
love had insured her misery, and that misery haunting you 
like a ghost ?—from that sorrow I have saved you. May 
Providence permit me to complete my work, and save you 
also from the most irredeemable of all crimes ! Look into 
your soul, then recall the thoughts which all day long, and 
not least at the moment I crossed this threshold, were rising 
up, making reason dumb and conscience blind, and then lay 
your hand on your heart and say, ‘ I am guiltless of a dream 
of murder.’ ” 

The wretched man sprang up erect, menacing, and, 
meeting Kenelm’s calm, steadfast, pitying gaze, dropped no 
less suddenly—dropped on the floor, covered his face with 
his hands, and a great cry came forth between ^sob and 
howl. 

“ Brother,” said Kenelm, kneeling beside him and twim 
iiig his arm round the man’s heaving breast, “ it is over 
n<^ ; with that cry the demon that maddened you has fle^ 
forever.” 


KENELM CHlLLlNGiy. 


I4p 


CHAPTER XX. 

When, some time after, Kenelm quitted the room and 
joined Mrs. Bowles below, he said cheerily, “All right ; Tom 
and I are sworn friends. We are going together to Lus- 
combe the day after to-morrow—Sunday ; just write a line 
to his uncle to prepare him for Tom’s visit, and sendthithei 
his clothes, as we shall walk, and steal forth unobserved be¬ 
times in the morning. Now go up and talk to him ; he 
Ivants a mother’s soothing and petting. He is a noble fellow 
at heart, and we shall be all proud of him some day or 
other.” 

As he walked back towards the farmhouse, Kenelm en- 
eountered Mr. Lethbridge, who said, “ I have come from 
Mr. Saunderson’s, where I went in search of you. There is 
an unexpected hitch in the negotiation for Mrs. Bawtrey’s 
shop. After seeing you this morning I fell in with Mr. 
Travers’s baililf, and he tells me that her lease does not 
give her the power to sublet without the Squire’s consent; 
and that as the premises were originally let on very low 
terms to a favored and responsible tenant, Mr. Travers can¬ 
not be expected to sanction the transfer of the lease to a 
poor basket-maker : in fact, though he will accept Mrs. 
Bawtrey’s resignation, it must be in favor of an applicant 
whom he desires to oblige. On hearing this, I rode over to 
the Park and saw Mr. Travers himself. But he was obdu¬ 
rate to my pleadings. All I could get him to say was, ‘ Let 
the stranger who interests himself in the matter come and 
talk to me. I should like to see the man who thrashed that 
brute Tom Bowles ; if he got the better of him perhaps he 
may get the better of me. Bring him with you to my 
harvest-supper to-morrow evening.’ Now, will you come ?” 

“Nay,” said Kenelm, reluctantly, “but if he only asks 
me in order to gratify a very vulgar curiosity, I don’t think 
I have much chance of serving Will Somers. What do you 
say ? ” 

“ The Squire is a good man of business, and though no 
one can call him unjust or grasping, still he is very little 
touched by sentiment; and we must own that a sickly crip¬ 
ple like poor Will is not a very eligible tenant. If, therefore, 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


141 


it depended only on your chance with the Squire, I should 
not be very sanguine. But we have an ally in his daughter. 
She is very fond of Jessie Wiles, and she has shown great 
kindness to Will. In fact, a sweeter, more benevolent, sym¬ 
pathizing nature than that of Cecilia Travers does not exist. 
She has great influence with her father, and through her 
you may win him.” 

“ I particularly dislike having anything to do with 
women,” said Kenelm, churlishly. “ Parsons are accus¬ 
tomed to get round them. Surely, my dear sir, you arc 
more fit for that work than I am.” 

“ Permit me humbly to doubt that proposition ; one don’t 
get very quickly round the women when one carries the 
weight of years on one’s back. But whenever you want 
the aid of a parson to bring your own wooing to a happy 
conclusion, I shall be happy, in my special capacity of par¬ 
son, to perform the ceremony required.” 

“ Dii meliora ! ” said Kenelm, gravely. Some ills are too 
serious to be approached even in joke. As for Miss Travers, 
the moment you call her benevolent you inspire me with 
horror. I know too well what a benevolent girl is—offici¬ 
ous, restless, fidgety, with a snub nose, and her pocket full 
of tracts. I will not go to the harvest-supper.” 

“ Hist! ” said the parson, softly. They were now passing 
the cottage of Mrs. Somers ; and while Kenelm was haran¬ 
guing against benevolent girls, Mr. Lethbridge had paused 
before it, and was furtively looking in at the window. “ Hist! 
and come here,—gently.” 

Kenelm obeyed, and looked in through the window. Will 
was seated—Jessie Wiles had nestled herself at his feet, and 
was holding his hand in both hers, looking up into his face. 
Her profile alone was seen, but its expression was unutter¬ 
ably soft and tender. His face, bent downwards towards 
her, wore a mournful expression ; nay, the tears were rolling 
silently down his cheeks. Kenelm listened, and heard her 
say, “ Don’t talk so, Will I you break my heart ; it is 1 who 
am not worthy of you.” 

“ Parson,” said Kenelm, as they walked on, “ I must go 
to that confounded harvest-supper. I begin to think there 
is something true in the venerable platitude about love in u 
cottage. And Will Somers must be married in haste, in 
order to repent at leisure.” 

“ I don’t see why a man should repent having married a 
good girl whom he loves,” 


142 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


“ You don’t ? Answer me candidly. Did you never meet 
a man who repented having married ? ” 

“ Of course I have ; very often.” 

“ Well, think again, and answer as candidly. Did you 
ever meet a man who repented not having married ? ” 

The parson mused, and was silent. 

“ Sir,” said Kenelm, “ your reticence proves your honesty, 
and I respect it.” So saying, he bounded off, and left the 
parson crying out wildly, “ But—but ” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Mr. Saunderson and Kenelm sat in the arbor; the 
former sipping his grog, and smoking his pipe—the latter 
looking forth into the summer night skies with an earnest 
yet abstracted gaze, as if he were trying to count the stars 
in the Milky Way. 

“Ha!” said Mr. Saunderson, who was concluding an 
argument; “ you see it now, don’t you ? ” 

“I—not a bit of it. You tell me that your grandfather 
was a farmer, and your father was a farmer, and that you 
have been a farmer for thirty years ; and from these premises 
you deduce the illogical and irrational conclusion that there¬ 
fore your son must be a farmer.” 

“ Young man, you may think yourself very knowing, 
’cause you have been at the ’Varsity and swept away a head¬ 
ful of book-learning.” 

“Stop,” quoth Kenelm. “You grant that a university is 
learned.” 

“ Well, I suppose so.” 

“ But how could it be learned if those who quitted it 
brought the learning away ? We leave it all behind us in 
the care of the tutors. But I know what you were going 
to say—that it is not because I had read more books than 
you have that I was to give myself airs and pretend to have 
more knowledge of life than a man of your years and ex¬ 
perience. Agreed, as a general rule. But does not every 
doctor, however wise and skilful, prefer taking another 
doctor’s opinion about himself, even though that other doctor 
has just started in practice ? And, seeing that doctors, tak¬ 
ing them as a bod^, are rnonstrous clever fellows, is not thf 




KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


*43 


example they set us worth following ? Does it not prove 
that no man, however wise, is a good judge of his own case ? 
Now, your son’s case is really your case—you seeic through 
the medium of your likings and dislikings—and insist upon 
forcing a square peg into a round hole, because in a round 
hole you, being a round peg, feel tight and comfortable. 
Now, I call that irrational.” 

“ I don’t see why my son has any right to fancy himself a 
square peg,” said the farmer, doggedly, “when his father, 
and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, have been 
round pegs ; and it is agin’ nature for any creature not to 
take after its own kind. A dog is a pointer or a sheep-dog 
according as its forebears were pointers or sheep-dogs. 
There,” cried the farmer, triumphantly, shaking the ashes 
out of his pipe, “ I think I have posed you, young master ! ” 

“ No ; for you have taken it for granted that the breeds 
have not been crossed. But suppose that a sheep-dog has 
married a pointer, are you sure that his son will not be more 
of a pointer than a sheep-dog ? ” 

Mr. Saunderson arrested himself in the task of refilling 
his pipe, and scratched his head. 

“You see,” continued Kenelm, “ that you have crossed 
the breed. You married a tradesman’s daughter, and I dare¬ 
say her grandfather and great-grandfather were tradesmen 
too. Now, most sons take after their mothers, and therefore 
Mr. Saunderson, junior, takes after his kind on the distal? 
side, and comes into the world a square peg, which can only 
be tight and comfortable in a square hole. It is no use 
arguing, farmer : your boy must go to his uncle ; and there’s 
an end of the matter.” 

“ By goles ! ” said the farmer, “ you seem to think you 
can talk me out of my senses.” 

“ No ; but I think if you had your own way you would 
talk your son into the workhouse.” 

“ What! by sticking to the land like h!s father before 
him ? Let a man stick by the land, and the land will stick 
by him.” 

“ Let a man stick in the mud, and the mud will stick to 
him. You put your heart in your farm, and your son would 
only put his foot into it. Courage ! Don’t you see that Time 
is a whirligig, and all things come round ? Every day some-, 
body leaves the land and goes off into trade. By-and-by he 
grows rich, and then his great desire is to get back to the 
livnd again. He left it the §on of farmer : h? returns to it 


144 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


as a squire. Your son, when he gets to be fifty, will invest 
his savings in acres, and have tenants of his own. Lord, how 
he will lay down the law to them ! I would not advise you 
to take a farm under him.” 

“ Catch me at it! ” said the farmer. “ He would turn all 
the contents of the ’pothecary’s shop into my fallows, and 
call it ‘ progress.’ ” 

“ Let him physic the fallows when he has farms of his 
own : keep yours out of his chemical clutches. Come, I 
shall tell him to pack up and be off to his uncle’s next 
week.” 

“Well, well,” said the farmer, in a resigned tone, “a 
wilful man must e’en have his way.” 

“ And the best thing a sensible man can do is not to cross 
it. Mr. Saunderson, give me your honest hand. You are 
one of those men who put the sons of good fathers in mind 
of their own ; and I think of mine when I say, ‘ God bless 
you ! ’” 

Quitting the farmer, Kenelm re-entered the house, and 
sought Mr. Saunderson, junior, in his own room. He found 
that young gentleman still up, and reading an eloquent tract 
on the Emancipation of the Human Race from all Tyrannical 
Control—Political, Social, Ecclesiastical, and Domestic. 

The lad looked up sulkily, and said, on encountering 
Kenelm’s melancholic visage, “ Ah! I see you have talked 
with the old governor, and he’ll not hear of it.” 

“ In the first place,” answered Kenelm, “ since you value 
yourself on a superior education, allow me to advise you to 
study the English language as the forms of it are maintained 
by the elder authors—whom, in spite of an Age of Progress, 
men of superior education esteem. No one who has gone 
through that study—no one, indeed, who has studied the Ten 
Commandments in the vernacular—commits the mistake of 
supposing that ‘ the old governor ’ is a synonymous expres¬ 
sion for ‘father.’ In the second place, since you pretend to 
the superior enlightenment which results from a superior 
education, learn to know better your own self before you 
set up as a teacher of mankind. Excuse the liberty I 
take, as your sincere well-wisher, when I tell you that you 
are at present a conceited fool—in short, that which makes 
one boy call another ‘ an ass.’ But when one has a poor 
head he may redeem the average balance of humanity by 
increasing the wealth of the heart. Try and increase yours. 
Your father consents to your choice of your lot at the s^cri- 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


145 


fice of all his own inclinations This is a sore trial to a 
father’s pride, a father’s affection ; and few fathers make 
such sacrifices with a good grace. I have thus kept my 
promise to you, and enforced your wishes on Mr. Saunder- 
son’s judgment, because I am sure you would have been a 
very bad farmer. It now remains for you to show that you 
can be a very good tradesman. You are bound in honor to 
me and to your father to try your best to be so ; and mean¬ 
while leave the task of upsetting the world to those who have 
no shop in it, which would go crash in the general tumble. 
And so good-night to you.” 

To these admonitory words, sacro digna silentio, Saunder- 
son junior listened with a dropping jaw and fascinated staring 
eyes. He felt like an infant to whom the nurse has given a 
hasty shake, and who is too stupefied by that operation to 
know whether he is hurt or not. 

A minute after Kenelm had quitted the room he reap¬ 
peared at the door, and said, in a conciliatory whisper, “ Don’t 
take it to heart that I called you a conceited fool and an ass. 
These terms are no doubt just as applicable to myself. But 
there is a more conceited fool and a greater ass than either 
of us, and that is, the Age in which we have the misfortune 
to be born—an Age of Progress, Mr. Saunderson, junior— 
an Age of Prigs ! ” 

1 


BOOK IIL 


CHAPTER I. 

If there were a woman in the world who might be formed 
and fitted to reconcile Kenelm Chillingly to the sweet 
troubles of love and the pleasant bickerings of wedded life, 
one might reasonably suppose that that woman could be 
found in Cecilia Travers. An only daughter, and losing her 
mother in childhood, she had been raised to the mistress-ship 
of a household at an age in which most girls are still putting 
their dolls to bed ; and thus had early acquired that sense 
of responsibility, accompanied with the habits of self-reli¬ 
ance, which seldom fails to give a certain nobility to char¬ 
acter ; though almost as often, in the case of women, it 
steals away the tender gentleness which constitutes the 
charm of their sex. 

It had not done so in the instance of Cecilia Travers, 
because she was so womanlike that even the exercise of power 
could not make her manlike. There was in the depth of her 
nature such an instinct of sweetness, that wherever her mind 
toiled and wandered it gathered and hoarded honey. 

She had one advantage over most girls in the same rank of 
life—she had not been taught to fritter away such capacities 
for culture as Providence gave her in the sterile nothing¬ 
nesses which are called feminine accomplishments. She did 
not paint figures out of drawing in meagre water-colors ; 
she had not devoted years of her life to the inflicting on po¬ 
lite audiences the boredom of Italian bravuras, which they 
could hear better sung by a third-rate professional singer in 
a metropolitan music-hall. I am afraid she had no other 
female accomplishments than those by which the seamstress 
or embroideress earns her daily bread. That sort of work 
she loved, and she did it deftly. 

But, if she had not been profitlessly plagued by masters, 
Cecilia Travers had been singularly favored by her father’s 
#=boice of a teacher,—no great merit in hini either. He had 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


147 


a prejudice against professional governesses, and it chanced 
that among his own family connections was a certain Mrs. 
Campion, a lady of some literary distinction, whose husband 
had held a high situation in one of our public offices, and 
living, much to his satisfaction, up to a very handsome in¬ 
come, had died, much to the astonishment of others, without 
leaving a farthing behind him. 

Fortunately, there were no children to provide for. A 
small government pension was allotted to the widow ; and 
as her husband’s house had been made by her one of the 
pleasantest in London, she was popular enough to be invit¬ 
ed by numerous friends to their country seats—among 
others, by Mr. Travers. She came intending to stay a fort¬ 
night. At the end of that time she had grown so attached 
to Cecilia, and Cecilia to her, and her presence had become 
so pleasant and so useful to her host, that the Squire entreat¬ 
ed her to stay and undertake the education of his daughter. 
Mrs. Campion, after some hesitation, gratefully consented ; 
and thus Cecilia, from the age of eight to her present age of 
nineteen, had the inestimable advantage of living in constant 
companionship with a woman of richly cultivated mind, ac¬ 
customed to hear the best criticisms on the best books, and 
adding to no small accomplishment in literature the refine¬ 
ment of manners and that sort of prudent judgment which 
result from habitual intercourse with an intellectual and 
gracefully world-wise circle of society ; so that Cecilia her¬ 
self, without being at all blue or pedantic, became one of 
those rare young women with whom a well-educated man 
can converse on equal terms—from whom he gains as much 
as he can impart to her ; while a man who, not caring much 
about books, is still gentleman enough to value good breed¬ 
ing, felt a relief in exchanging the forms of his native lan¬ 
guage without the shock of hearing that a bishop was “ a 
swell,” or a croquet-party “ awfully jolly.” 

In a word, Cecilia was one of those women whom heaven 
forms for man’s helpmate—who, if he were born to rank and 
wealth, would, as his partner, reflect on them a new dignity, 
and add to their enjoyment by bringing forth their duties— 
who, not less if the husband she chose were poor and strug¬ 
gling, would encourage, sustain, and soothe him, take her 
own share of his burdens, and temper the bitterness of life 
with the all-recompensing sweetness of her smile. 

Little, indeed, as yet had she ever thought of love or of 
lovers. She had not even formed to herself any of those 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


14S 

ideals which float before the eyes of most girls when they 
enter their teens. But of two things she felt inly convinced 
—first, that she could never wed where she did not love ; 
and, secondly, that where she did love it would be for life. 

And now I close this sketch with a picture of the girl 
herself. She has just come into her room from inspecting 
the preparations for the evening entertainment which her 
father is to give to his tenants and rural neighbors. 

She has thrown aside her straw hat, and put down the 
large basket which she has emptied of flowers. She pauses 
before the glass, smoothing back the ruffled bands of her 
hair—hair of a dark, soft chestnut, silky and luxuriant— 
never polluted, and never, so long as she lives, to be pollut¬ 
ed, by auricomous cosmetics :—far from that delicate dark¬ 
ness, every tint of the colors traditionally dedicated to the 
locks of Judas. 

Her complexion, usually of that soft bloom which in¬ 
clines to paleness, is now heightened into glow by exercise 
and sunlight. The features are small and feminine, the eyes 
dark with long lashes, the mouth singularly beautiful, with 
a dimple on either side, and parted now in a half-smile at 
some pleasant recollection, giving a glimpse of small teeth 
glistening as pearls. But the peculiar charm of her face is 
in an expression of serene happiness, that sort of happiness 
which seems as if it had never been interrupted by a sorrow, 
had never been troubled by a sin—that holy kind of happi¬ 
ness which belongs to innocence, the light reflected from a 
heart and conscience alike at peace. 


CHAPTER H. 

It was a lovely summer evening for the Squire’s rural 
entertainment. Mr. Travers had some guests staying with 
him : they had dined early for the occasion, and were now 
grouped with their host, a little before six o’clock, on the 
lawn. The house was of irregular architecture, altered or 
added to at various periods from the reign of Elizabeth to 
that of Victoria : at one end- the oldest part, a gable with 
mullion-windows ; at the other, the newest part, a flat-roofed 
wing, with modern sashes opening to the ground, the inter¬ 
mediate part much hidden by a veranda covered with creep- 



KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


14^ 


ers in full bloom. The lawn was a spacious table-land fac¬ 
ing the west, and backed by a green and gentle hill, crowned 
with the ruins of an ancient priory. On one side of the 
lawn stretched a flower-garden and pleasure ground, origin¬ 
ally planned by Repton ; on the opposite angles of the sward 
were placed two large marquees—one for dancing, the other 
for supper. Towards the south the view was left open, and 
commanded the prospect of an old English park, not of the 
stateliest character,—not intersected with ancient avenues, 
nor clothed with profitless fern as lairs for deer—but the 
park of a careful agriculturist, uniting profit with show, 
the sward duly drained and nourished, fit to fatten bullocks 
in an incredibly short time, and somewhat spoilt to the eye 
by subdivisions of wire-fence. Mr, Travers was renowned 
for skilful husbandry, and the general management of land 
to the best advantage. He had come into the estate while 
still in childhood, and thus enjoyed the accumulations of a 
long minority. He had entered the Guards at the age of 
eighteen, and having more command of money than most of 
his contemporaries, though they might be of a higher rank 
and the sons of richer men, he had been much courted and 
much plundered. At the age of twenty-five he found him¬ 
self one of the leaders of fashion, renowned chiefly for reck 
less daring wherever honor could be plucked out of the nettle 
danger; a steeple-chaser, whose exploits made a quiet man’s 
hair stand on end ; a rider across country, taking leaps 
which a more cautious huntsman carefully avoided. Known 
at Paris as well as in London, he had been admired by la¬ 
dies whose smiles had cost him duels, the marks of which 
still remained in glorious scars on his person. No man 
ever seemed more likely to come to direst grief before at¬ 
taining the age of thirty, for at twenty-seven all the accu¬ 
mulations of his minority were gone, and his estate, which, 
when he came of age, was scarcely three thousand a year, 
but entirely at his own disposal, was mortgaged up to its 
eyes. 

His friends began to shake their heads and call him 
‘‘poor fellow ; ” but, with all his wild faults, Leopold Trav¬ 
ers had been wholly pure from the two vices out of which 
a man does not often redeem himself. He had never drunk 
and he had never gambled. His nerves were not broken, 
his brain was not besotted. There was plenty of health in 
him yet, mind and body. At the critical period of his life 
he married for love, and his choice was a most felicitous 


kENELM CHILLINGt V. 


no 

one. The lady had no fortune ; but, though handsome and 
high-born, she had no taste for extravagance, and no desire 
for other society than that of the man she loved. So when 
he said, “ Let us settle in the country and try our best to 
live on a few hundreds, lay by, and keep the old place out 
of the market,” she consented with a joyful heart: and mar¬ 
vel it was to all how this wild Leopold Travers did settle 
down ; did take to cultivating his home farm with his men 
from sunrise to sunset, like a common tenant-farmer; did 
contrive to pay the interest on the mortgages, and keep his 
head above water. After some years of pupilage in this 
school of thrift, during which his habits became formed and 
his whole character braced, Leopold Travers suddenly found 
himself again rich, through the wife whom he had so pru¬ 
dently married without other dower than her love and her 
virtues. Her only brother. Lord Eagleton, a Scotch peer, 
had been engaged in marriage to a young lady considered 
to be a rare prize in the lottery of wedlock. The marriage 
was broken off under very disastrous circumstances ; but 
the young lord, good-looking and agreeable, was naturally 
expected to seek speedy consolation in some other alliance. 
Nevertheless he did not do so ;—he became a confirmed in¬ 
valid, and*died single, leaving to his sister all in his power 
to save from the distant kinsman who succeeded to his lands 
and title,—a goodly sum, which not only sufficed to pay off 
the mortgages on Neesdale Park, but bestowed on its 
owner a surplus which the practical knowledge of country 
life that he had acquired enabled him to devote with extra¬ 
ordinary profit to the general improvement of his estate. 
He replaced tumble-down old farm-buildings with new 
constructions on the most approved principles ; bought or 
pensioned off certain slovenly incompetent tenants ; threw 
sundry petty holdings into large farms suited to the buildings 
he constructed ; purchased here and there small bits of land, 
commodious to the farms they adjoined, and completing the 
integrity of his ring-fence ; stubbed up profitless woods 
which diminished the value of neighboring arables by ob¬ 
structing sun and air and harboring legions of rabbits ; and 
then, seeking tenants of enterprise and capital, more than 
doubled his original yearly rental, and perhaps more than 
tripled the market value of his property. Simultaneously 
with this acquisition of fortune, he emerged from the in¬ 
hospitable and unsocial obscurity which his previous pov¬ 
erty had compelled, took an active part in county business. 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


I 5 » 

pioved himself an excellent speaker at public meetings, sub¬ 
scribed liberally to the Hunt, and occasionally joined in it 
’—a less bold but a wiser rider than of yore. In short, as 
Themistocles boasted that he could make a small state great, 
so Leopold Travers might boast with equal truth that,' by 
his energies, his judgment, and the weight of his personal 
character, he had made the owner of a property which had 
been at his succession to it of third-rate rank in the county, 
a personage so considerable that no knight of the shire 
against whom he declared could have been elected, and if 
he had determined to stand himself he would have been 
chosen free of expense. 

But he said, on being solicited to become a candidate, 
“ When a man once gives himself up to the care and im¬ 
provement of a landed estate, he has no time and no heart 
for anything else. An estate is an income or a kingdom, 
according as the owner chooses to take it. I take it as a 
kingdom, and I cannot be roi faineant., with a steward for 
maire du falais. A king does not go into the House of 
Commons.” 

Three years after this rise in the social ladder, Mrs. 
Travers was seized with congestion of the lungs, followed 
by pleurisy, and died after less than a week’s illness. Leo¬ 
pold never wholly recovered her loss. Though still young, 
and always handsome, the idea of another wife, the love of 
another woman, were notions which he dismissed from his 
mind with a quiet scorn. He was too masculine a creature 
to parade grief. For some weeks, indeed, he shut himself 
up in his own room, so rigidly secluded that he would not 
see even his daughter. But one morning he appeared in his 
fields as usual, and from that day resumed his old habits, 
and gradually renewed that cordial interchange of hospital¬ 
ities which had popularly distinguished him since his ac¬ 
cession to wealth. Still, people felt that the man was 
changed ; he was more taciturn, more grave : if always just 
in his dealings, he took the harder side of justice, where in 
his wife’s time he had taken the gentler. Perhaps, to a man of 
strong will, the habitual intercourse with an amiable woman 
is essential for those occasions in which Will best proves 
the fineness of its temper by the facility with which it can 
be bent. 

It may be said that Leopold Travers might have found 
such intercourse in the intimate companionship of his own 
daughter. But she was a mere child when his wife died. 


t52 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


and she grew up to womanhood too insensibly for him to 
note the change. Besides, where a man has found a wife 
his all-in-all, a daughter can never supply her place. The 
very reverence due to children precludes unrestrained con¬ 
fidence ; and there is not that sense of permanent fellowship 
in a daughter which a man has in a wife,—any day a stranger 
may appear and carry her off from him. At all events 
Leopold did not own in Cecilia the softening influence to 
which he had yielded in her mother. He was fond of her, 
proud of her, indulgent to her ; but the indulgence had its set 
limits. Whatever she asked solely for herself he granted ; 
whatever she wished for matters under feminine control 
—the domestic household, the parish school, the alms- 
receiving poor—obtained his gentlest consideration. But 
when she had been solicited by some offending out-of-door 
dependent or some petty defaulting tenant to use her good 
offices in favor of the culprit, Mr. Travers checked her in¬ 
terference by a firm “No,” though uttered in a mild accent, 
and accompanied with a masculine aphorism to the effect 
“ that there would be no such things as strict justice and dis¬ 
ciplined order in the world if a man yielded to a woman’s 
pleadings in any matter of business between man and man.” 
From this it will be seen that Mr. Lethbridge had overrated 
the value of Cecilia’s alliance in the negotiation respecting 
Mrs. Bawtrey’s premium and shop. 


CHAPTER III 

If, having just perused what has thus been written on the 
biographical antecedents and mental characteristics of Leo¬ 
pold Travers, you, my dear reader, were to be personally 
presented to that gentleman as he now stands, the central 
figure of the group gathered round him, on his terrace, you 
would probably be surprised,—nay, I have no doubt you 
would say to yourself, “Not at all the sort of man I ex- 
pected.” In that slender form, somewhat below the middle 
height ; in that fair countenance which still, at the age of 
forty-eight, retains a delicacy of feature and of coloring 
which is of almost woman-like beauty, and, from the quiet 
placidity of its expression, conveys at first glance the notion 
of almost woman-like mildness,—it would be difficult to 



CHILLINGLY. 


»51 


recognize a man who in youth had been renowned for reck¬ 
less daring, in maturer years more honorably distinguished 
for steadfast prudence and determined purpose, and who, 
alike in faults or in merits, was as emphatically masculine 
as a biped in trousers can possibly be. 

Mr. Travers is listening to a ypung man of about two-and' 
twenty, the eldest son of the richest nobleman of the county, 
and who intends to start for the representation of the shire 
at the next general election, which is close at hand. The 
Hon. George Belvoir is tall, inclined to be stout, and will 
look well on the hustings. He has had those pains taken 
with his education which an English peer generally does 
take with the son intended to succeed to the representation 
of an honorable name and the responsibilities of high station. 
If eldest sons do not often make as great a figure in the 
world as their younger brothers, it is not because their 
minds are less cultivated, but because they have less motive 
power for action. George Belvoir was well read, especially 
in that sort of reading which befits a future senator—history, 
statistics, political economy, so far as that dismal science is 
compatible with the agricultural interest. He was also well- 
principled, had a strong sense of discipline and duty, was 
prepared in politics firmly to uphold as right whatever was 
proposed by his own party, and to reject as wrong what¬ 
ever was proposed by the other. At present he was rather 
loud and noisy ia the assertion of his opinions,—young men 
fresh from the university generally are. It was the secret 
wish of Mr. Travers that George Belvoir should become his 
son-in-law—less because of his rank and wealth (though 
such advantages were not of a nature to be despised by a 
practical man like Leopold Travers) than on account of 
those qualities in his personal character which were likely 
to render him an excellent husband. 

Seated on wire benches, just without the veranda, but 
shaded by its fragrant festoons, were Mrs. Campion and 
three ladies, the wives of neighboring squires. Cecilia 
stood a little apart from them, bending over a long-backed 
Skye terrier, whom she was teaching to stand on his hind¬ 
legs. 

But see, the company are arriving ! How suddenly that 
green space, ten minutes ago so solitary, has become animated 
and populous! 

Indeed, the Park now presented a very lively appearance : 
^ans, carts, and farmers’ chaises were seen in crowded 


r 


r54 


KENELM cmLLWGLY, 


procession along the winding road ; foot-passengers were 
swarming towards the house in all directions. The herds 
and flocks in the various inclosures stopped grazing to 
stare at the unwonted invaders of their pasture ; yet the 
orderly nature of the host imparted a respect for order to 
his ruder visitors ; not even a turbulent boy attempted to 
scale the fences or creep through their wires ; all threaded 
the narrow turnstiles which gave egress from one sub¬ 
division of the sward to another. 

Mr. Travers turned to George Belvoir : “ I see old farmer 
Steen’s yellow gig. Mind how you talk to him, George. He 
is full of whims and crotchets, and if you once brush his 
feathers the wrong way he will be as vindictive as a parrot. 
But he is the man who must second you at the nomination. 
No other tenant-farmer carries the same weight with his 
class.” 

“ I suppose,” said George, “ that if Mr. Steen is the best 
man to second me at the hustings, he is a good speaker.” 

“ A good speaker ?—in one sense he is. He never says a 
word too much. The last time he seconded the nomination 
of the man you are to succeed, this was his speech : ‘ Brother 
Electors, for twenty years I have been one of the judges at 
our county cattle-show. I know one animal from another. 
Looking at the specimens before us to-day, none of them 
are as good of their kind as I’ve seen elsewhere. But if you 
choose Sir John Hogg you’ll not get the wrong sow by the 
ear ! ’ ” 

“ At least,” said George, after a laugh at this sample of 
eloquence unadorned, “ Mr. Steen does not err on the side 
of flattery in his commendations of a candidate. But what 
makes him such an authority with the farmers ? Is he a 
first-rate agriculturist ? ” 

“ In thrift, yes !—in spirit, no ! He says that all expensive 
experiments should be left to gentlemen farmers. He is an 
authority with other tenants—istly, Because he is a very 
keen censor of their landlords ; 2dly, Because he holds him¬ 
self thoroughly independent of his own ; 3dly, Because he is 
supposed to have studied the political bearings of questions 
that affect the landed interest, and has more than once been 
summoned to give his opinion on such subjects to Com¬ 
mittees of both Houses of Parliament. Here he comes. Ob¬ 
serve, when I leave you to talk to him, istly, that you confess 
utter ignorance of practical farming,—nothing enrages him 
like the presumption of a gentleman farmer like myself; 


KEhl^LM chillingly. 


>55 


2dly, that you ask his opinion on the publication of Agri¬ 
cultural Statistics, just modestly intimating that you, as at 
present advised, think that inquisitorial researches into a 
man’s business involve principles opposed to the British 
Constitution. And on all that he may say as to the short 
comings of landlords in general, .and of your father in par¬ 
ticular, make no reply, but listen with an air of melancholy 
conviction. How do you do, Mr. Steen, and how’s the Mis¬ 
tress ? Why have you not brought her with you ?” 

“ My good woman is in the straw again, Squire. Who is 
that youngster ? ” 

‘‘ Hist! let me introduce Mr. Belvoir.” 

Mr. Belvoir offers his hand. 

“ No, sir! ” vociferates Steen, putting both his own 
hands behind him. “ No offence, young gentleman. But I 
don’t give my hand at first sight to a man who wants to 
shake a vote out of it. Not that I know anything against you. 
But, if you be a farmer’s friend, rabbits are not, and my 
lord your father is a great one for rabbits.” 

“Indeed you are mistaken there!” cries George, with 
vehement earnestness. Mr. Travers gave him a nudge, as 
much as to say, “ Hold your tongue.” George understood 
the hint, and is carried off meekly by Mr. Steen down the 
solitude of the plantation. 

The guests now arrived fast and thick. They consisted 
chiefly not only of Mr. Travers’s tenants, but of farmers and 
their families within the range of eight or ten miles from the 
Park, with a few of the neighboring gentry and clergy. 

It was not a supper intended to include the laboring 
‘class. For Mr. Travers had an especial dislike to the cus¬ 
tom of exhibiting peasants at feeding-time, as if they were 
so many tamed animals of an inferior species. When he 
entertained work-people, he made them comfortable in their 
own way ; and peasants feel more comfortable when not in¬ 
vited to be stared out of countenance. 

“Well, Lethbridge,” said Mr. Travers, “where is the 
young gladiator you promised to bring ? ” 

“ I did bring him, and he was by my side not a minute 
ago. He has suddenly given me the slip— abiit^ evasit^ erupit. 

I was looking round for him in vain when you accosted 

.r>. 

me. 

“ I hope he has not seen some guest of mine whom he 
W’ants to fight.” 

“ I hope not,” answered the Parson, doubtfully. “ He 


KENELM chillingly. 


\'b 

is a strange fellow. But I think you will be pleased with 
him—that is, if he can be found. Oh, Mr. Saunderson, how 
do you do ? Have you seen your visitor ? ” 

“No, sir, I have just come. My Mistress, Squire, and 
my three girls and this is my son.” 

“ A hearty welcome to all,” said the graceful Squire ; 
(turning to Saunderson junior) “ I suppose you are fond of 
dancing. Get yourself a partner. We may as well open the 
ball.” ‘ 

“ Thank you, si , but I never dance,” said Saunderson 
junior, with an air of austere superiority to an amusement 
which the March of Intellect had left behind. 

“ Then you’ll have less to regret when you are grown 
old. But the band is striking up ; we must adjourn to the 
marquee. George ” (Mr. Belvoir, escaped from Mr. Steen, 
had just made his reappearance), “will you give your arm to 
Cecilia, to whom I think you are engaged for the first 
quadrille ? ” 

“ I hope,’’said George to Cecilia, as they walked towards 
the marquee, “ that Mr. Steen is not an average specimen of 
the electors I shall have to canvass. Whether he has been 
brought up to honor his own father and mother I can’t pre¬ 
tend to say, but he seems bent upon teaching me not to 
honor mine. Having taken away my father’s moral charac¬ 
ter upon the unfounded allegation that he loved rabbits 
better than mankind, he then assailed my innocent mother 
-Dn the score of religion, and inquired when she was going 
over to the Church of Rome—basing that inquiry on the 
assertion that she had taken away her custom from a Pro¬ 
testant grocer and conferred it on a Papist.” 

“ Those are favorable signs, Mr. Belvoir. Mr. Steen 
always prefaces a kindness by a great deal of incivility. I 
asked him once to lend me a pony, my own being suddenly 
taken lame, and he seized that opportunity to tell me that 
my father was an impostor in pretending to be a judge of 
cattle; that he was a tyrant, screwing his tenants in order to 
indulge extravagant habits of hospitality ; and implied that 
it would be a great mercy if he did not live to apply to him, 
not for a pony, but for parochial relief. I went away indig¬ 
nant. But he sent me the pony. I am sure he will give 
you his vote.” 

“Meanwhile,” said George, with a timid attempt at gal¬ 
lantry, as they now commenced the quadrille, “I take en¬ 
couragement from the belief that f have the good wishes 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


157 


of Miss Travers. If ladies had votes, as Mr. Mill recom¬ 
mends, why, then-” 

“ Why, then, I should vote as papa does,” said Miss 
Travers, simply. “And if women had votes, I suspect there 
would be very little peace in any household where they did 
not vote as the man at the head of it wished them.” 

“ But I believe, after all,” said the aspirant to Parliament, 
seriously, “ that the advocates for female suffrage would limit 
it to women independent of masculine control—widows and 
spinsters voting in right of their own independent tene¬ 
ments.” 

“In that case,” said Cecilia, “ I suppose they would still 
generally go by the opinion of some man they relied on, or 
make very silly choice if they did not.” 

“You underrate the good sense of your sex.” 

“ I hope not. Do you underrate the good sense of yours, 
if, in far more than half the things appertaining to daily life, 
the wisest men say, ‘better leave tJmn to the wojnen't But 
you’re forgetting the figure —cavalier seul." 

“ By the way,” said George, in another interval of the 
dance, “ do you know a Mr. Chillingly, the son of Sir Peter, 
of Exmundham, in Westshire?” 

“ No ; why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because I thought I caught a glimpse of his face : it 
was just as Mr. Steen was bearing me away down the planta¬ 
tion. From what you say, I must suppose I was mistaken.” 

“ Chillingly! But surely some persons were talking yes¬ 
terday at dinner about a young gentleman of that name as 
being likely to stand for Westshire at the next election, but 
who had made a very unpopular and eccentric speech on the 
occasion of his coming of age.” 

“The same man—I was at college with him—a very sin¬ 
gular character. He was thought clever—won a prize or 
two—took a good degree, but it was generally said that he 
would have deserved a much higher one if some of his papers 
had not contained covert jests either on the subjects or the 
examiners. It is a dangerous thing to set up as a humorist 
in practical life—especially public life. They say Mr. Pitt 
had naturally a great deal of wit and humor, but he wisely 
suppressed any evidence of those qualities in his Parliamen¬ 
tary speeches. Just like Chillingly, to turn into ridicule the 
important event of festivities in honor of his coming of age 
—an occasion that can never occur again in the whole course 
of his life.” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 




“ It was bad taste,” said Cecilia, “ if intentional. Bui 
perhaps he was misunderstood, or taken by surprise.” 

“Misunderstood—possibly; but taken by surprise—no. 
The coolest fellow I ever met. Not that I have met him very 
often. Latterly, indeed, at Cambridge he lived much alone. 
It was said that he read hard. I doubt that, for my rooms 
were just over his, and I know that he was much more 
frequently out of doors than in. He rambled a good deal 
about the country on foot. I have seen him in by-lanes a 
dozen miles distant from the town when I have been riding 
back from the Hunt He was fond of the water, and pulled 
a mighty strong oar, but declined to belong to our Univer¬ 
sity crew ; yet if ever there was a fight between undergradu¬ 
ates and bargemen, he was sure to be in the midst of it Yes, 
a very great oddity indeed, full of contradictions, for a mild¬ 
er, quieter fellow in general intercourse you could not see ; 
and as for the jests of which he was accused in his Examin¬ 
ation Papers, his very face should have acquitted him of the 
charge before any impartial jury of his countrymen.” 

“You sketch quite an interesting picture of him,” said 
Cecilia. “ I wish we did know him ; he would be worth 
seeing.” 

“ And, once seen, you would not easily forget him—a dark 
handsome face, with large melancholy eyes, and with one of 
those spare, slender figures which enable a man to disguise 
his strength, as a fraudulent billiard-player disguises his 
play.” 

The dance had ceased during this conversation, and the 
speakers were now walking slowly to and fro the lawn amid 
the general crowd. 

“ How well your father plays the part of host to these 
rural folks ! ” said George, wdth a secret envy. “ Do observe 
how quietly he puts that shy young farmer at his ease, and 
now how kindly he deposits that lame old lady on the bench 
and places the stool under her feet. What a canvasser he 
would be ! and hoW young he still looks, and how monstrous 
handsome! ” 

This last compliment was uttered as Travers, having 
made the old lady comfortable, had joined the three Miss 
. Saundersons, dividing his pleasant smile equally between 
them, and seemingly unconscious of the admiring glances 
which many another rural beauty directed towards him as 
he passed along. About the man there was a certain inde¬ 
scribable elegance, a natural suavity free from all that affec* 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


S5f 

tation, whether of forced heartiness or condescending civil¬ 
ity, which too often characterizes the well-meant efforts of 
provincial magnates to accommodate themselves to persons 
of inferior station and breeding. It is a great advantage to a 
man to have passed his early youth in that most equal and 
most polished of all democracies—the best society of large 
capitals. And to such acquired advantage Leopold Travers 
added the inborn qualities that please. 

Later in the evening, Travers, again accosting Mr. Leth¬ 
bridge, said, “ I have been talking much to the Saundersons 
about that young man who did us the inestimable service of 
punishing your ferocious parishioner, Tom Bowles ; and all 
I hear so confirms the interest your own account inspired 
me with, that I should really like much to make his ac¬ 
quaintance. Has not he turned up yet ? 

“ No ; I fear he must have gone. But in that case I hope 
you will take his generous desire to serve my poor basket- 
maker into benevolent consideration.” 

“ Do not press me ; I feel so reluctant to refuse any re¬ 
quest of yours. But I have my own theory as to the man¬ 
agement of an estate, and my system does not allow of favor. 
I should wish to explain that to the young stranger himself. 
For I hold courage in such honor that I do not like a brave 
man to leave these parts with an impression that Leopold 
Travers is an ungracious churl. However, he may not have 
gone. I will go and look for him myself. Just tell Cecilia 
that she has danced enough with the gentry, and that I 
have told farmer Turby’s son, a fine young fellow, and a 
capital rider across country, that I expect him to show my 
daughter that he can dance as well as he rides.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Quitting Mr. I.ethbridge, Travers turned with quick step 
towards the more solitary part of the grounds. He did not 
find the object of his search in the walks of the plantation ; 
and, on taking the circuit of his demesne, wound his way back 
towards the lawn through a sequestered rocky hollow in the 
rear of the marquee, which had been devoted to a fernery. 
Here he came to a sudden pause ; for, seated a few yards 
before him on a gray crag, and the moonlight full on hia 



KENELM CHILUNGLY. 


i6o 

face, he saw a solitary man, looking upwards with a tliD 
and mournful gaze, evidently absorbed in abstract comem- 
plation. 

Recalling the description of the stranger which he had 
heard from Mr. Lethbridge and the Saundersons, Mr. Travers 
felt sure that he had come on him at last. He approached 
gently ; and being much concealed by the tall ferns, Kenelm 
(for that itinerant it was) did not see him advance, until he 
felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning round, beheld a 
winning smile and heard a pleasant voice. 

“ I think I am not mistaken,” said Leopold Travers, “ in 
assuming you to be the gentleman whom Mr. Lethbridge 
promised to introduce to me, and who is staying with my 
tenant Mr. Saunderson t ” 

Kenelm rose and bowed. Travers saw at once that it was 
the bow of a man in his own world, and not [n keeping with 
the Sunday costume of a petty farmer. “ Nay,” said he, “ let 
us talk seated ; ” and, placing himself on the crag, he made 
room for Kenelm beside him. 

“ In the first place,” resumed Travers, “I must thank you 
for having done a public service in putting down the brute 
force which lias long tyrannized over the neighborhood. 
Often in my young days I have felt the disadvantage of 
height and sinews, whenever it would have been a great con¬ 
venience to terminate dispute or chastise insolence by a re¬ 
sort to man’s primitive weapons ; but I never more lamented 
my physical inferiority than on certain occasions when I 
would have given my ears to be able to thrash Tom Bowles 
mys^^lf. It has been as great a disgrace to my estate that 
that bully should so long have infested it, as it is to the 
King of Italy not to be able with all his armies to put down 
a brigand in Calabria.” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Travers, but I am one of those rare 
persons who do not like to hear ill of their friends. Mr. 
Thomas Bowles is a particular friend of mine.” 

“ Eh! ” cried Travers, aghast. “ ‘ Friend ’! You are iok- 
ing.” ^ 

“You would not accuse me of joking if you knew me 
better. But surely you have felt that there are few friends 
one likes more cordially, and ought to respect more heed- 
fully, than the enemy with whom one has just made it up.” 

“You say well, and I accept the rebuke,” said Travers, 
more and more surprised. “And I certainly have less right 
to abuse Mr. Bowles than you have, since I had not the 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


i6i 


courage to fight him. To turn to another subject less provo¬ 
cative. Mr. Lethbridge has told me of your amiable desire 
to serve two of his young parishioners—Will Somers and 
Jessie Wiles—and of your generous offer to pay the money 
Mrs. Bawtrey demands for the transfer of her lease. To that 
negotiation my consent is necessary, and that consent I 
cannot give. Shall I tell you why ? ” 

“ Pray do. Your reasons may admit of argument.” 

“ Every reason admits of argument,” said Mr. Travers, 
amused at the calm assurance of a yj^uthful stranger in anti¬ 
cipating argument with a skillful proprietor on the manage¬ 
ment of his own property. ‘‘ I do not, however, tell you my 
reasons for the sake of argument, but in vindication of my 
seeming want of courtesy towards yourself. I have had a 
very hard and a very difficult task to perform in bringing 
the rental of my estate up to its proper value. In doing so, 
I have been compelled to adopt one uniform system, equally 
applied to my largest and my pettiest holdings. That system 
consists in securing the best and safest tenants I can, at the 
rents computed by a valuer in whom I have confidence. To 
this system, universally adopted on my estate, though it in¬ 
curred much unpopularity at first, I have at length succeeded 
in reconciling the public opinion of my neighborhood. 
People began by saying I was hard ; they now acknowledge 
I am just. If I once give way to favor of sentiment, I un¬ 
hinge my whole system. Every day I am subjected to mov¬ 
ing solicitations. Lord Twostars—a keen politician—begs 
me to give a vacant farm to a tenant because he is an excel¬ 
lent canvasser and has alway voted straight with the Party. 
Mrs. Fourstars, a most benevolent woman, entreats me not 
to dismiss another tenant, because he is in distressed circum¬ 
stances and has a large family—very good reasons perhaps 
for my excusing him an arrear or allowing him a retiring 
pension, but the worst reasons in the world for letting him 
continue to ruin himself and my land. Now, Mrs. Bawtrey 
has a small holding on lease at the inadequate rent of ^^8 a 
year. She asks ^^45 for its transfer, but she can’t transfer 
the lease without my consent; and I can get ^12 a year as 
a moderate rental from a large choice of competent tenants. 
It will better answer to me to pay her the ^^45 myself, which 
I have no doubt the incoming tenant would pay me back, 
at least in part ; and if he did not, the additional rent would 
be good interest for my expenditure Now, you happen to 
take a sentimental interest, as you pass through the village, 


i 62 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


in the loves of a needy cripple, whose utmost industry has 
but served to save himself from parish relief, and a giddy 
girl without a sixpence, and you ask me to accept these very 
equivocal tenants instead of substantial ones, and at a rent 
one-third less than the market value. Suppose that I yielded 
to your request, what becomes of my reputation for practical, 
business-like justice ? I shall have made an inroad into the 
system by which my whole estate is managed, and have in¬ 
vited all manner of solicitations on the part of friends and 
neighbors, which I could no longer consistently refuse, hav¬ 
ing shown how easily I can be persuaded into compliance 
by a stranger whom I may never see again. And are you 
sure, after all, that, if you did prevail on me, you would do 
the individual good you aim at ? It is, no doubt, very pleas¬ 
ant to think one has made a young couple happy. But if 
that young couple fail in keeping the little shop to which 
would transplant them (and nothing more likely—peasants 
seldom become good shop-keepers), and find themselves, 
with a family of children, dependent solely, not on the arm 
of a strong laborer, but the ten fingers of a sickly cripple, 
who makes clever baskets, for which there is but slight and 
precarious demand in the neighborhood, may you not have 
insured the misery of the couple you wished to render 
happy ? ” 

“I withdraw all argument,” said Kenelm, with an aspect 
so humiliated and dejected that it would have softened a 
Greenland bear, or a Counsel for the Prosecution. “ I am 
more and more convinced that of all the shams in the world, 
that of benevolence is the greatest. It seems so easy to do 
good, and it is so difficult to do it. Everywhere, in this 
hateful civilized life, one runs one’s head against a system. 
A system, Mr. Travers, is man’s servile imitation of the blind 
tyranny of what in our ignorance we call ‘ Natural Laws,’ a 
mechanical something through which the world is ruled by 
the cruelty of General Principles, to the utter disregard of 
individual welfare. By Natural Laws creatures prey on each 
other, and big fishes eat little ones upon system. It is, 
nevertheless, a hard thing for the little fish. Every nation, 
every town, every hamlet, every occupation, has a system, by 
which, somehow or other, the pond swarms with fishes, of 
which a great many inferiors contribute to increase the size 
of a superior. It is an idle benevolence to keep one solitary 
gudgeon out of the jaws of a pike. Here am I doing what 
I thought the simplest thing in the world, asking a gently- 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


i6i 

man, evidently as good-natured as myself, to allow an old 
woman to let her premises to a deserving young couple, and 
paying what she asks for it out of my own money. And I 
find that I am running against a system, and invading all 
the laws by which a rental is. increased and an estate im¬ 
proved. Mr. Travers, you have no cause for regret in not 
having beaten Tom Bowles. You have beaten his victor, 
and I now give up all dream of further interference with the 
Natural Laws that govern the village which I have visited 
in vain. I had meant to remove Tom Bowles from that 
quiet community. I shall now leave him to return to his 
former habits—to marry Jessie Wiles—which he certainly 
will do, and-” 

“ Hold ! ” cried Mr. Travers. “ Do you mean to say that 
you can induce Tom Bowles to leave the village ? ” 

I had induced him to do it, provided Jessie Wiles 
married the basket-maker ; but, as that is out of the question, 
I am bound to tell him so, and he will stay.” 

“ But if he left, what would become of his business ? His 
mother could not keep it on ; his littie place is a freehold, 
the only house in the village that does not belong to me, or 
I should have ejected him long ago. Would he sell the 
premises to me ? ” 

“ Not if he stays and marries Jessie Wiles. But if he 
goes with me to Luscombe and settles in that town as a 
partner to his uncle, I suppose he would be too glad to sell 
a house of which he can have no pleasant recollection. But 
what then ? You cannot violate your system for the sake of 
a miserable forge.” 

“It would not violate my system if, instead of yielding 
to a sentiment, I gained an advantage ; and, to say truth, I 
should be very glad to buy that forge and the fields that go 
with it.” 

“ Tis youi affair now, not mine, Mr. Travers. I no long¬ 
er presume to interfere. I leave the neighborhood to-mor¬ 
row : see \iyou can negotiate with Mr. Bowles. 1 have the 
honor to wish you a good-evening.” 

“ Nay, young gentleman, I cannot allow you to quit me 
thus. You have declined apparently to join the dancers, 
but you will at least join the supper. Come ! ” 

“ Thank you sincerely, no. I came here merely on the 
business which your system has settled.” 

“ But I am not sure that it is settled.” Here Mr. Tra¬ 
vers wound his arm withiri Kerielm’Sj and, looking him full 



i64 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


in the face, said, “ I know that I am speaking to a gentle 
man at least equal in rank to myself, but as I enjoy the me¬ 
lancholy privilege of being the older man, do not think I 
take an unwarrantable liberty in asking if you object to tell 
me your name. I should like to introduce you to my 
daughter, who is very partial to Jessie Wiles and to Will 
Somers. But I can’t venture to inflame her imagination by 
designating you as a prince in disguise.” 

Mr. Travers, you express yourself with exquisite deli¬ 
cacy. But I am just starting in life, and I shrink from mor¬ 
tifying my father by associating my name with a signal 
failure. Suppose I were an anonymous contributor, say, to 
‘The Londoner,’ and I had just brought that highly intel¬ 
lectual journal into discredit by a feeble attempt at a good- 
natured criticism or a generous sentiment, would that be 
the fitting occasion to throw ofl the mask and parade myself 
to a mocking world as the imbecile violator of an established 
system ? Should I not, in a moment so untoward, more 
than ever desire to merge my insignificant unit in the mys¬ 
terious importance which the smallest Singular obtains 
when he makes himself a Plural, and speaks not as ‘I,’ but 
as ‘ We ’ ? We are insensible to the charm of young ladies; 
We are not bribed by suppers ; We^ like the witches of Mac¬ 
beth, have no name on earth ; We are the greatest wisdom 
of the greatest number ; We are so upon system ; We salute 
you, Mr. Travers, and depart unassailable.” 

Here Kenelm rose, dofled and replaced his hat in majes¬ 
tic salutation, turned towards the entrance of the fernery, 
and found himself suddenly face to face with George Bel- 
voir, behind whom followed, with a throng of guests, the 
fair form of Cecilia. George Belvoir caught Kenelm by the 
hand, and exclaimed, “ Chillingly ! I thought I could not be 
mistaken.” 

“Chillingly!” echoed Leopold Travers from behind. 
“ Are you the son of my old friend Sir Peter ?” 

Thus discovered and environed, Kenelm did not lose his 
wonted presence of mind ; he turned round to Leopold Tra¬ 
vers, who was now close in his rear, and whispered, “ If my 
father was your friend, do not disgrace his son. Do not say 
I am a failure. Deviate from your system, and let Will 
Somers succeed Mrs. Bawtrcy.” Then reverting his face to 
Mr. Belvoir, he said, tranquilly, “Yes ; we have met before.” 

“Cecilia,” said Travers, now interposing, “I am happy 
to introduce to you n? Mr. Chillingly, not only the son of 


I^kNELM CniLlIMGLY, 


an old friend of mine, not only the knight-errant of whose 
gallant conduct on behalf of your protegee Jessie Wiles we 
have heard so much, but the eloquent arguer who has con¬ 
quered my better judgment in a matter on which I thought 
myself infallible. Tell Mr. 'Lethbridge that I accept Will 
Somers as a tenant for Mrs. Bawtrey’s premises.” 

Kenelm grasped the Squire’s hand cordially. “ May it 
be in my power to do a kind thing to you, in spite of any 
system to the contrary ! ” 

“Mr. Chillingly, give your arm to my daughter. You 
will not now object to join the dancers?” 


CHAPTER V. 

Cecilia stole a shy glance at Kenelm as the two emerged 
from the fernery into the open space of the lawn. His 
countenance pleased her. She thought she discovered much 
latent gentleness under the cold and mournful gravity of its 
expression ; and attributing the silence he maintained to 
some painful sense of an awkward position in the abrupt 
betrayal of his incognito, sought with womanly tact to dis¬ 
pel his supposed embarrassment. 

“You have chosen a delightful mode of seeing the coun¬ 
try this lovely summer weather, Mr. Chillingly. I believe 
such pedestrian exercises are very common with University 
Students during the Long Vacation.” 

“Very common, though they generally wander in packs 
like wild dogs or Australian dingoes. It is only a tame dog 
that one finds on the road traveling by himself; and then, 
unless he behaves very quietly, it is ten to one that he is 
stoned as a mad dog.” 

“ But I am afraid, from what I hear, that you have not 
been traveling very quietly.” 

“ You are quite right, Miss Travers, and I am a sad dog 
if not a mad one. But pardon me, we are nearing the 
marquee ; the band is striking up, and, a’as ! I am not a 
dancing dog.” 

He released Cecilia’s arm, and bowed. 

“ Let us sit here awhile, then,” said she, motioning to a 
garden-bench. “ I have no engagement for the next dance^ 
and, as I am a little tired, I shall be glad of a reprieve.” 



l66 


KENELM cmiLWGLY, 


Kenelm sighed, and, with the air of a martyr stretching 
himself on the rack, took his place beside the fairest girl in 
the county. 

“You were at college with Mr. Belvoir?” 

“ I was.” 

“ He was thought clever there ? ” 

“ I have not a doubt of it.” 

“You know he is convassing our county for the next 
election. My father takes a warm interest in his success, 
and thinks he will be a useful member of Parliament.” 

“ Of that I am certain. For the first five years he will be 
called pushing, noisy, and conceited, much sneered at by 
men of his own age, and coughed down on great occasions ; 
for the five following years he will be considered a sensible 
man in committees, and a necessary feature in debate ; at the 
end of those years he will be an under-secretary ; in five 
years more he will be a Cabinet Minister, and the represen¬ 
tative of an important section of opinions : he will be an ir¬ 
reproachable private character, and his wife will be seen 
wearing the family diamonds at all the great parties. She 
will take an interest in politics and theology ; and if she die 
before him, her husband will show his sense of wedded hap¬ 
piness by choosing another lady, equally fitted to wear the 
family diamonds and to maintain the family consequence.” 

In spite of her laughter, Cecilia felt a certain awe at the 
solemnity of voice and manner with which Kenelm deliver¬ 
ed these oracular sentences, and the whole prediction seemed 
strangely in unison with her own impressions of the char¬ 
acter whose fate was thus shadowed out. 

“Are you a fortune-teller, Mr. Chillingly?” she asked, 
falteringly, and after a pause. 

“As good a one as any whose hand you could cross with 
a shilling.” 

“Will you tell me my fortune ? ” » 

“No ; I never tell the fortunes of ladies, because your 
sex is credulous, and a lady might believe what I tell her. 
And when we believe such and such is to be our fate, we are 
too apt to work out our life into the verification of the be¬ 
lief. If Lady Macbeth had disbelieved in the witches, she 
would never have persuaded her lord to murder Duncan.” 

“ But can you not predict me a more cheerful fortune 
than that tragical illustration of yours seems to threaten ?” 

“The future is never cheerful to those who look on the 
dark side of the question. Mr. Gray is too good a poet foi 


fCE^ELM CHILLII^GL^. 


l6^ 

people to read nowadays, otherwise I should refer you to his 
lines in the Ode to Eton College— 


‘ See how all around us wait 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune’s baleful train.* 

Meanwhile it is something to enjoy the present. We are 
young—we are listening to music—there is no cloud over 
the summer stars—our conscience is clear—our hearts un¬ 
troubled : why look forward in search of happiness ?—shall 
we ever be happier than we are at this moment ? ” 

Here Mr. Travers came up. “We are going to supper 
in a few minutes,” said he ; “and before we lose sight of 
each other, Mr. Chillingly, I wish to impress on you the 
moral fact that one good turn deserves another. I have 
yielded to your wish, and now you must yield to mine. 
Come and stay a few days with me, and see your benevolent 
intentions carried out.” 

Kenelm paused. Now that he was discovered, why 
should he not pass a few days among his equals ? Realities 
or shams might be studied with squires no less than with 
farmers ; besides, he had taken a liking to Travers. That 
graceful cidevant Wildair, with the slight form and the deli¬ 
cate face, was unlike rural squires in general. Kenelm 
paused, and then said, frankly : 

“ I accept your invitation. Would the middle of next 
week suit you ? ” 

“The sooner the better. Why not to-morrow ?” 

“ To-morrow I am pre-engaged to an excursion with Mr. 
Bowles. That may occupy two or three days, and mean¬ 
while I must write home for other garments than those in 
which Lam a sham.” 

“ Come any day you like.” 

“ Agreed.” 

“Agreed ; and, hark ! the supper-bell.” 

“ Supper,” said Kenelm, offering his arm to Miss Tra, 
vers,—“ supper is a word truly interesting, truly poetical. 
It associates itself with the entertainments of the ancients 
—with the Augustan age—with Horace and Maecenas ;—• 
with the only elegant but too fleeting period of the modern 
world—with the nobles and wits of Paris, when Paris had 
wits and nobles ;—with Moliere and the warm-hearted Duke 
who is said to have been the original of Moliere’s Misan- 


i68 


tCRNELM CHILLINGLY, 


thrope ;—with Madame de Sevigne and the Racitie Whom 
that inimitable letter-writer denied to be a poet;—with Swift 
and Bolingbroke —with Johnson, Goldsmith, and Garrick. 
Epochs are signalized by their eatings. I honor him who 
revives the Golden Age of suppers/' So saying, his face 
brightened. 


I 

I 


CHAPTER Vt. 


kENELftt chillingly, ESQ., TO SIR VETER ChILLINGLY, BART., 

ETC. ETC. 

My dear FaYher,—I am alive and Unmarried. Providence has 
Watched over me in these respects ; but I have had nai'row escapes. Hither¬ 
to I have not acquired much wordly wisdom in my travels. It is true that I 
have been paid two shillings as a day-laborer, and, in fact, have fairly earned 
at least six shillings more ; but against that additional claim I generously set 
olf, as an equivalent, my board and lodging. On the other hand, I have spent 
forty-five pounds out of the fifty which I devoted to the purchase of experience. 
But I hope you will be a gainer by that investment. Send an order to Mr. 

William Somers, basket-maker. Graveleigh, -shire, for the hampers and 

game-baskets you require, and I undertake to say that you will save twenty 
percent, on that article (all expenses of carriage deducted), and do a good 
action into the bargain. You know, from long habit, what a good action is 
worth better than I do. I daresay you will be more pleased to learn, than I 
am to record, the fact that 1 have been again decoyed into the society of ladies 
and gentlemen, and have accepted an invitation to pass a few days at Neesdale 
Park with Mr. Travers—christened Leopold—who calls you ‘ his old friend’ 
—a term which I take for granted belongs to that class of poetic exaggeration 
in which the ‘ dears ’ and ‘ darlings ’ of conjugal intercourse may be catego¬ 
rized. Having for that visit no suitable garments in my knapsack, kindly tell 
Jenkes to forward me a portmanteauful of those which I habitually wore as 
Kenelm Chillingly, directed to me at ‘ Neesdale Park, near Beaverston.’ Let 
me find it there on Wednesday. 

“ I leave this place to-morrow morning in company with a friend of the 
name of Bowles—no relation to the reverend gentleman of that name who 
held the doctrine that a poet should bore us to death with fiddle-faddle minu¬ 
tiae of natural objects in preference to that study of the insignificant creature 
Man, in his relations to his species, to which Mr. Pope limited the range of 
his inferior muse ; and who, practising as he preached, wrote some very nice 
verses, to which the Lake school and its successors are largely indebted. My 
Mr. Bowles has exercised his faculty upon Man, and has a pow’erful inborn 
gift in that line which only requires cultivation to render him a match for any 
one. His more masculine nature is at present much obscured by that pass¬ 
ing cloud which, in conventional language, is called ‘ a Hopeless Attachment.’ 
But I trust, in the course of our excursion, which is to be taken on foot, that 
this vapor may consolidate by motion, as some old-fashioned astronomers held 
that the nebula does consolidate into a matter-of-fact world. Is it Hocbe* 



CHILLIUGIV. 


foucauld who says that a man is never more likely to form a hopeful attach¬ 
ment for one than when his heart is softened by a hopeless attachment to 
another? May it be long, my dear father, liefore you condole with me on 
the first or congratulate me on the second.—Your affectionate son, 

“ Kenelm. 

I 

“Direct to me at Mr. Travers’s. Kindest love to my mother.” 


The answer to this letter is here subjoined as the most 
convenient place for its insertion, though of course it was 
not received till some days after the date of my next 
chapter. 

SIR PETER CHILLINGLY, BART., TO KENELM CHILLINGLY, ESQ. 

“ My DEAR Boy,— With this I despatch the portmanteau you require to 
the address that you give. I remember well Leopold Travers when he was in 
the Guards—a very handsome and a very wild young fellow. But he had 
much more sense than people gave him credit for, and frequented intellectual 
society; at least I met him very often at my friend Campion’s, whose house 
was then the favorite rendezvous of distinguished persons. He had very win¬ 
ning manners, and one could not help taking an interest in him. I was very 
glad when I heard he had married and reformed. Here I beg to observe that 
a man who contracts a taste for low company r.,ay indeed often marry, but he 
seldom reforms when he does so. And, on the whole, I should be much 
pleased to hear that the experience which has cost you forty-five pounds had 
convinced you that you might be better employed than earning two, or even 
six shillings, as a day-laborer. 

“1 have not given your love to your mother, as you requested. In fact, 
you have placed me in a very false position towards that other author of your 
eccentric being. I could only guard you from the inquisition of the police 
and the notoriety of descriptive 'hand-bills by allowing my lady to suppose 
that you had gone abroad with the Duke of Clairville and his family. It is 
easy to tell a fib, but it is very difficult to untell it. However, as soon as you 
have made up your mind to resume your normal position among ladies and 
gentlemen, I should be greatly obliged if you would apprise me. I don’t 
wish to keep a fib on my conscience a day longer than may be necessary to 
prevent the necessity of telling another. 

“ From what you say of Mr. Bowles’s study of Man, and his inborn talent 
for that scientific investigation, I suppose that he is a professed Metaphysi¬ 
cian, and I should be glad of his candid opinion upon the Primary Basis of 
Morals, a subject upon which I have for three years meditated the considera¬ 
tion of a critical paper. But having lately read a controversy thereon between 
two eminent philosophers, in which each accuses the other of not understand¬ 
ing him, I have resolved for the present to leave the Basis in its unsettled 
condition. 

“ You rather alarm me when you say you have had a narrow escape from 
marriage. Should you, in order to increase the experience you set out to 
acquire, decide on trying the effect of a Mrs. Chillingly upon your nervous 
system, it would be well to let me know a little beforehand, so I might pre¬ 
pare your mother’s mind for that event. Such household trifles are within 

% 


1^6 


KENELM CHILLIMClV. 


her special province; and she would be much put out if a Mrs. Chillingly 
dropped on her unawares. 

“ This subject, li 'wever, is too serious to admit of a jest even between two 
persons who umiei stand, so well as you and I do, the secret cipher by which 
each other’s out ward style of jest is to be gravely interpreted into the irony 
which says one thing and means another. My dear boy, you are very young 
—you are wandering about in a very strange manner—and may, no doubt, 
meet with many a pretty face by the way, with which you may fancy that you 
fall in love. You cannot think me a barbarous tyrant if I ask you to promise 
me, on your honor, that you will not propose to any young lady before you 
come first to me and submit the case to my examination and approval. You 
know me too well to suppose that I should unreasonably withhold my con¬ 
sent if convinced that your happiness was at stake. But while what a young 
man may fancy to be love is often a trivial incident in his life, marriage is the 
greatest event in it; if on one side it may involve his happiness, on the other 
side it may insure his misery. Dearest, best, and oddest of sons, give me the 
promise I ask, and you will free my breast from a terribly anxious thought 
which now sits on it like a nightmare. 

“ Your recommendation of a basket-maker comes opportunely. All such 
matters go through the bailiffs hands, and it was but the other day that Green 
was complaining of the high prices of the man he employed for hampers and 
game baskets. Green shall write to yowx proteg^. 

“ Keep me informed of your proceedings as much as your anomalous char¬ 
acter will permit; so that nothing may diminish my confidence that the man 
who had the honor to be christened Kenelm will not disgrace his name, but 
acquire the distinction denied to a Peter.—Your affectionate father.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Villagers lie abed on Sundays later than on work-days, 
and no shutter was unclosed in a window of the rural street 
through which Kenelm Chillingly and Tom Bowles went, 
side by side, in the still soft air of the Sabbath morn. Side 
by side they went on, crossing the pastoral glebe-lands, 
where the kine still drowsily reclined under the bowery 
shade of glinting chestnut-leaves ; and diving thence into a 
narrow lane or by-road, winding deep between lofty banks 
all tangled with convolvulus and wild-rose and honeysuckle. 

They walked in silence, for Kenelrn, after one or two vain 
attempts at conversation, had the tact to discover that his 
companion was in no mood for talk ; and being himself one 
of those creatures whose minds glide easily into the dreamy 
monologue of reverie, he was not displeased to muse on 
undisturbed, drinking quietly into his heart the subdued joy 
of the summer morn, with the freshness of its sparkling 



iCEmtM CHTLlmcLY. 


dews, the wayward carol of its earliest birds, the serene 
quietude of its limpid breezy air. Only when they came to 
fresh turnings in the road that led towards the town to which 
they were bound, Tom Bowles stepped before his companion, 
indicating the way by a monosyllable or a gesture. Thus 
they journeyed for hours, till the sun attained power, and a 
little wayside inn near a hamlet invited Kenelm to the 
thought of rest and food. 

“ Tom,” said he then, rousing from his reverie, “ what 
do you say to breakfast ? ” 

Answered Tom sullenly, “ I am not hungry—but as you 
like.” 

“ Thank you, then we will stop here awhile. I find it 
difficult to believe that you are not hungry, for you are very 
strong, and there are two things which generally accompany 
great physical strength : the one is a keen appetite ; the other 
is—though you may not suppose it, and it is not commonly 
known—a melancholic temperament.” 

“Eh!—a what.?” 

“ A tendency to melancholy. Of course you have heard 
of Hercules—you know the saying ‘ as strong as Hercules ’ ? ” 

“Yes—of course.” 

“ Well, I was first led to the connection between strength, 
appetite, and melancholy, by reading in an old author named 
Plutarch, that Hercules was among the most notable instan¬ 
ces of melancholy temperament which the author was en¬ 
abled to quote. That must have been the traditional notion of 
the Herculean constitution ; and as for appetite, the appetite 
of Hercules was a standard joke of the comic writers. When 
I read that observation it set me thinking, being myself mel¬ 
ancholic, and having an exceedingly good appetite. Sure 
enough, when I began to collect evidence, I found that the 
strongest men with whom I made acquaintance, including 
prize-fighters and Irish draymen, were disposed to look upon 
life more on the shady than the sunny side of the way ; in 
short, they were melancholic. But the kindness of Provi¬ 
dence allowed them to enjoy their meals, as you and I are 
about to do.” 

In the utterance of this extraordinary crotchet Kenelm 
had halted his steps ; but now, striding briskly forward, he 
entered the little inn, and, after a glance at its larder, ordered 
the whole contents to be brought out and placed within a 
honeysuckle arbor which he spied in the angle of a bowling' 
green at the rear of the house. 


kEMELM CinLLINGlV. 




In addition to the ordinary condiments of loaf, and buttef, 
and eggs, and milk, and tea, the board soon groaned beneath 
the weight of pigeon-pie, cold ribs of beef and shoulder of 
mutton, remains of a feast which the members of a monthly 
rustic club had held there the day before. Tom ate little at 
first; but example is contagious, and gradually he vied with 
his companion in the diminution of the solid viands before 
him. Then he called for brandy. 

“ No,” said Kenelm. “ No, Tom ; you have promised me 
friendship, and that is not compatible with brandy. Brandy 
is the worst enemy a man like you can have, and would 
make you quarrel even with me. If you want a stimulus I 
allow you a pipe : I don’t smoke myself, as a rule, but there 
have been times in my life when I required soothing, and 
then I have felt that a whiff of tobacco stills and softens 
one like the kiss of a little child. Bring this gentleman a 
pipe.” 

Tom grunted, but took to the pipe kindly, and in a few 
minutes, during which Kenelm left him in silence, a lower¬ 
ing furrow between his brows smoothed itself away. 

Gradually he felt the sweetening influences of the day 
and the place, of the merry sunbeams at play amid the leaves 
of the arbor, of the frank perfume of the honeysuckle, of the 
warble of the birds before they sank into the taciturn repose 
of a summer noon. 

It was with a reluctant sigh that he rose at last, when 
Kenelm said, “We have yet far to go : we must push on.” 

The landlady, indeed, had already given them a hint that 
she and the family wanted to go to church, and to shut up 
the house in their absence. Kenelm drew out his purse, but 
Tom did the same with a return of cloud on his brow, and 
Kenelm saw that he would be mortally offended if suffered 
to be treated as an inferior; so each paid his due share, and 
the two men resumed their wandering. This time it was 
along a by-path amid fields, which was a shorter cut than 
the lane they had previously followed, to the main road to 
Luscombe. They walked slowly till they came to a rustic 
foot-bridge which spanned a gloomy trout-stream, not noisy, 
but with a low, sweet murmur, doubtless the same stream 
beside which, many miles away, Kenelm had conversed with 
the minstrel. Just as they came to this bridge there floated 
to their ears the distant sound of the hamlet church bell. 

“ Now let us sit here awhile and listen,” said Kenelm, 
seating himself on the baluster of the bridge. “ I see that 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


m 


you brought away your pipe from the inn, and p' ovided your¬ 
self with tobacco : refill the pipe, and listen.” 

Tom half smiled, and obeyed. 

“ O friend,” said Kenelm, earnestly, and after a long pause 
of thought, “ do you not feel what a blessed thing it is in this 
mortal life to be ever and anon reminded that you have a 
soul?” 

Tom, startled, withdrew the pipe from his lips, and mut¬ 
tered : 

Eh ! ” 

Kenelm continued : 

“ You and I, Tom, are not so good as we ought to be—of 
that there is no doubt; and good people would say justly 
that we should now be within yon church itself rather than 
listening to its bell. Granted, my friend, granted ; but still 
it is something to hear that bell, and to feel by the train of 
thought which began in our innocent childhood, when we 
said Our prayers at the knees of a mother, that we were lift¬ 
ed beyond this visible nature, beyond these fields, and woods, 
and waters, in which, fair though they be, you and I miss 
something, in which neither you nor I are as happy as the 
kine in the fields, as the birds on the bough, as the fishes in 
the water—lifted to a consciousness of a sense vouchsafed 
to you and to me, not vouchsafed to the kine, to the bird, 
and the fish—a sense to comprehend that Nature has a God, 
and Man has a life hereafter. The bell says that to you and 
to me. Were that bell a thousand times more musical, it 
could not say that to beast, bird, and fish. Do you under¬ 
stand me, Tom ? ” 

Tom remains silent for a minute, and then replies: 

I never thought of it before ; but as you put it, I under¬ 
stand.” 

“ Nature never gives to a living thing capacities not prac¬ 
tically meant for its benefit and use. If Nature gives to us 
capacities to believe that we have a Creator whom we never 
saw of whom we have no direct proof, who is kind and good 
and tender beyond all that we know of kind and good and 
tender on earth, it is because the endowment of capacities to 
conceive such a Being must be for our benefit and use ; it 
would not be for our benefit and use if it were a lie. Again, 
if Nature has given to us a capacity to receive the notion that 
we live again, no matter whether some of us refuse so to 
believe, and argue against it,—why, the very capacity to 
receive the ide«'v (for unless we received it we could not argue 


174 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


against it) proves that it is for our benefit and use ; and ^ 
there were no such life hereafter, we should he governed and 
influenced, arrange our modes of life, and mature our civiliza¬ 
tion, by obedience to a lie, which Nature falsified herself in 
giving us the capacity to believe. You still understand 
me ? ” 

“Yes ; it bothers me a little, for you see I am not a par¬ 
son’s man ; but I do understand.’’ 

“ Then, my friend, study to apply—for it requires con¬ 
stant study—study to apply that which you understand 
to your own case. You are something more than Tom 
Bowles the smith and doctor of horses ; something more 
than the magnificent animal that rages for its mate and 
fights every rival: the bull does that. You are a soul en¬ 
dowed with the capacity to receive the idea of a Creator so 
divinely wise and great and good that, though acting by the 
agency of general laws. He can accommodate them to all 
individual cases, so that—taking into account the life here¬ 
after, which He grants to you the capacity to believe—all 
that troubles you now will be proved to you wise and great 
and good either in this life or the other. Lay that truth to 
your heart, friend, now—before the bell stops ringing ; re¬ 
call it every time you hear the church bell ring again. And 
oh, Tom, you have such a noble nature-“ 

“I—I ! don’t jeer me—don’t.’’ 

“ Such a noble nature ; for you can love so passionately, 
you can war so fiercely, and yet, when convinced that your 
love would be misery to her you love, can resign it; and yet, 
when beaten in your war, can so forgive your victor that you 
are walking in this solitude with him as a friend, knowing 
that you have but to drop a foot behind him in order to take 
his life in an unguarded moment; and rather than take his 
life, you Avould defend it against an army. Do you think I 
am so dull as not to see all that ? and is not all that a noble 
nature ?” 

Tom Bowles covered his face with his hands, and his 
broad breast heaved. 

“ Well, then, to that noble nature I now trust. I myself 
have done little good in life. I may never do much ; but let 
me think that I have not crossed your life in vain for you 
and for those whom your life can color for good or for bad. 
As you are strong, be gentle ; as you can lovs one, be kind to 
all ; as you have so much that is grand as Man—that is, the 
highest of God’s works on earth,—let all your acts attach 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


175 


your manhood to the idea of Him to whom the voice of the 
bell appeals. Ah ! the bell is hushed ; but not your heart, 
Tom,—that speaks still.” * 

Tom was weeping like a child. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Now when out two travellers resumed their journey the 
relationship between them had undergone a change ; nay, 
you might have said that their characte<rs were also changed. 
For Tom found himself pouring out his turbulent heart to 
Kenelm, confiding to this philosophical scoffer at love all 
the passionate humanities of love—its hope, its anguish, its 
jealousy, its wrath—the all that links the gentlest of emotions 
to tragedy and terror. And Kenelm, listening tenderly, with 
softened eyes, uttered not one cynic word—nay, not one play¬ 
ful jest. He felt that the gravity of all he heard was too 
solemn for mockery, too deep even for comfort. True love 
of this sort was a thing he had never known, never wished 
to know, never thought he could know, but he sympathized 
in it not the less. Strange, indeed, how much we do sym¬ 
pathize, on the stage, for instance, or in a book, with pas¬ 
sions that have never agitated ou rselves. Had Kenelm jested, 
or reasoned, or preached, Tom would have shrunk at once 
into dreary silence ; but Kenelm said nothing, save now and 
then, as he rested his arm, brother-like, on the strong man’s 
shoulder, he murmured, “poor fellow ! ” So, then, when Tom 
had finished his confessions, he felt wondrously relieved and 
comforted. He had cleansed his bosom of the perilous stuff 
that weighed upon the heart. 

Was this good result effected by Kenelm’s artful diplo¬ 
macy, or by that insight into human passions vouchsafed, 
unconsciously to himself, by gleams or in flashes, to this 
strange man who surveyed the objects and pursuits of his 
fellows with a yearning desire to share them, murmuring to 
himself, “I cannot—I do not stand in this -world; like a 
ghost I glide beside it, and look on ” ? 

Thus the two men continued their way slowly, amid soft 
pastures and yellowing corn-fields, out at length into the 
dusty thoroughfares of the main road. That gained, their 
talk insensibly phanged its tone—it became more common- 



76 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


place, and Kenelm permitted himself the license of those 
crotchets by which he extracted a sort of quaint pleasantry 
out of commonplace itself ; so that from time to time Tom 
was startled into the mirth of laughter. This big fellow had 
one very agreeable gift, which is only granted, I think, to 
men of genuine character and affectionate dispositions—a 
spontaneous and sweet laugh, manly and frank, but not 
boisterous, as you might have supposed it would be. But 
that sort of laugh had not before come from his lips, since 
the day on which his love for Jessie Wiles had made him at 
war with himself and the world. 

The sun was setting when from the brow of a hill they 
beheld the spires of Luscombe, imbedded amid the level 
meadows that stretched below, watered by the same stream 
that had wound along their more rural pathway, but which 
now expanded into stately width, and needed, to span it, a 
mighty bridge fit for the convenience of civilized traffic. 
The town seemed near, but it was full two miles off by road. 

“ There is a short cut across the fields beyond that stile, 
which leads straight to my uncle’s house,” said Tom ; “and 
I daresay, sir, that you will be glad to escape the dirty 
suburb by which the road passes before we get into the 
town.” 

“ A good thought, Tom. It is very odd that fine towns 
always are approached by dirty suburbs—a covert symbolical 
satire, perhaps, on the ways to success in fine towns. Avarice 
or ambition go through very mean little streets before they 
gain the place which they jostle the crowd to win—in the 
Townhall or on ’Change. Happy the man who, like you, 
Tom, finds that there is a shorter and a cleaner and a pleas¬ 
anter way to goal or to resting-place than that through the 
dirty suburbs !” 

They met but few passengers on their path through the 
fields—a respectable, staid, elderly couple, who had the air 
of a Dissenting minister and his wife ; a girl of fourteen 
leading a little boy seven years younger by the hand ; a pair 
of lovers, evidently lovers at least to the eye of Tom Bowles 
•—for, on regarding them as they passed unheeding him, he 
winced, and his face changed. Even after they had passed, 
Kenelm saw on the face that pain lingered there ; the lips 
were tightly compressed, and their corners gloomily drawn 
down. 

Just at this moment a dog rushed towards them with a 
short quick bark—a Pomeranian dog with pointed nose and 


KENFLM "JHILLINGLY. 


177 


pricked ears. It hushed hs bark as it neared Kenelm, 
sniffed his trousers, and wagged its tail. 

“ By the sacred Nine,” cried Kenelm, “ thou art the dog 
with the tin tray ! where is thy master ? ” 

The dog seemed to understand the question, for it turned 
its head significantly, and Kenelm saw, seated under a lime- 
tree, at a good distance from the path, a man, with book in 
hand, evidently employed in sketching. 

“ Come this way,” he said to Tom ; “ I recognize an ac¬ 
quaintance. You will like him.” Tom desired no new ac¬ 
quaintance at that moment, but he followed Kenelm sub¬ 
missively. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“You see we are fated to meet again,” said Kenelm, 
stretching himself at his ease beside the Wandering Min¬ 
strel, and motioning Tom to do the same. “ But you seem 
to add the accomplishment of drawing to that of verse-mak¬ 
ing ! You sketch from what you call Nature ? ” 

“ From what I call Nature ! yes, sometimes.” 

“ And do you not find in drawing, as in verse-making, 
the truth that 1 have before sought to din into your reluc¬ 
tant ears—viz,, that Nature has no voice except that which 
man breathes into her out of his mind } I would lay a 
wager that the sketch you are now taking is rather an at¬ 
tempt to make her embody some thought of your own, than 
to present her outlines as they appear to any other observer. 
Permit me to judge for myself.” And he bent over the 
sketch-book. It is often difficult for one who is not him¬ 
self an artist nor a connoisseur, to judge whether the pen¬ 
cilled jottings in an impromptu sketch are by the hand of a 
professed master or a mere amateur. Kenelm was neither 
artist nor connoisseur, but the mere pencil-work seemed to 
him much what might be expected from any man with an 
accurate eye, who had taken a certain number of lessons 
from a good drawing-master. It was enough for him, how¬ 
ever, that it furnished an illustration of his own theory. “ I 
was right,” he cried, triumphantly. “ From this height 
there is a beautiful view, as it presents itself to me ; a beau¬ 
tiful view of the town^ its meadows, its rlver,^ harm.oaked by 



178 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


the sunset; for sunset, like gilding, unites conflicting coh 
ors, and softens them in uniting. But I see nothing of that 
view in your sketch. What I do see is to me mysterious.” 

“ The view you suggest,” said the minstrel, “ is no doubt 
very fine, but it is for a Turner or a Claude to treat it. My 
grasp is not wide enough for such a landscape.” 

“ I see indeed in your sketch but one figure, a child.” 

“Hist! there she stands. Hist! while I put in this last 
touch.” 

Kenelm strained his sight, and saw far off a solitary little 
girl, who was tossing something in the air (he could not 
distinguish what), and catching it as it fell. She seemed 
standing on the very verge of the upland, backed by rose- 
clouds gathered round the setting sun ; below lay in con¬ 
fused outlines the great town. In the sketch those outlines 
seemed infinitely more confused, being only indicated by a 
few bold strokes ; but the figure and face of the child Avere 
distinct and lovely. There was an ineffable sentiment in 
her solitude, there was a depth of quiet enjoyment in her 
mirthful play, and in her upturned eyes. 

“ But at that distance,” asked Kenelm, Avhen the wan¬ 
derer had finished his last touch, and, after contemplating 
it, silently closed his book, and turned round with a genial 
smile—“ but at that distance, how can you distinguish the 
girl’s face ? How can you discover that the dim object she 
has just thrown up and recaught is a ball made of flowers t 
Do you know the child ? ” 

“I never saw her before this evening; but as I was 
seated here she was straying around me alone, weaving into 
chains some wild-flowers which she had gathered by the 
hedgerows yonder, next the high-road ; and as she strung 
them she was chanting to herself some pretty nursery 
rhymes. You can well understand that when I heard her 
thus chanting I became interested, and as she came near 
me I spoke to her, and we soon made friends. She told me 
she was an orphan, ahd brought up by a very old man dis-^ 
tantly related to her, who had been in some small trade^ 
and now Iwed in a crowded lane in the heart of the town. 
He was very kind to her, and, being confined himself to the. 
house by age or ailment, he sent "her out to play in the. 
fields on summer Sundays. She had no companions of her, 
own age She said she did not like the other little girls in 
the lane ; and the only little girl she liked at school had a 
grari<i^r statiQfl in life, was nQt aUgwee^ to play with her- 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


179 


SO she came out to play alone ; and as long as the sun shines 
and the flowers bloom, she says she never wants other society.” 

“ Tom, do you hear that ? As you will be residing in 
Luscombe, find out this strange little girl, and be kind to 
her, Tom, for my sake.” 

Tom put his large hand upon Kenelm’s, making no other 
answer ; but he looked hard at the minstrel, recognized the 
genial charm of his voice and face, and slid along the grass 
nearer to him. 

The minstrel continued : “ While the child was talking 
to me I mechanically took the flower-chains from her hand, 
and, not thinking what I was about, gathered them up into 
a ball. Suddenly she saw what I had done, and instead of 
scolding me for spoiling her pretty chains, which I richly 
deserved, was delighted to find I had twisted them into a 
new plaything. She ran off with the ball, tossing it about 
till, excited with her own joy, she got to the brow of the 
hill, and I began my sketch.” 

“ Is that charming face you have drawn like hers ? ” 

“ No ; only in part. I was thinking of another face 
while I sketched, but it is not like that either; in fact, it is 
one of those patchworks which we call ‘ fancy heads,’ and I 
meant it to be another version of a thought that I had just 
put into rhyme, when the child came across me.” 

“ May we hear the rhyme ? ” 

fear that if it did not bore yourself it would bore 
your friend.” 

“ I am sure not. Tom, do you sing ?” 

“Well, I have sung,” said Tom, hanging his head sheep¬ 
ishly, “ and I should like to hear this gentleman.” 

“ But I do not know these verses, just made, well enough 
VO sing them ; it is enough if I can recall them well enough 
to recite.” Here the minstrel paused a minute or so as if 
for recollection, and then, in the sweet clear tones, and the 
rare purity of enunciation which characterized his utterance, 
whether in recital or song, gave to the following verses 
a touching and a varied expression which no one could diS' 
cover in merely reading them. 

THE FLOWER-GIRL BY THE CROSSING 

By the muddy crossing in the crowded streets 

Stands a little maid with her basket full of posies, 

Proffering all who pass her choice of knitted sweets, 

Tempting Age with he£trt’s-ease, eQU^fing Youth with rosQ§, 


F.ENELM CHILLINGLY. 


i8a 


Age disdains the heart’s-ease. 

Love rejects the roses; 

London life is busy— 

Who can stop for posies ? 

One man is too grave, another is too gay— 

This man has his hot-house, that man not a penny j 
Flowerets too are common in the month of May, 

And the things most common least attract the many. 

Ill on London crossings 
Fares the sale of posies; 

Age disdains the heart’s-ease. 

Youth rejects the roses. 

When the verse-maker had done, he did not pause for ap¬ 
probation, nor look modestly down, as do most people who 
recite their own verses, but, unaffectedly tliinking much 
more of his art than his audience, hurried c n somewhat dis¬ 
consolately : 

I see with great grief that I am better at sketching 
than rhyming. Can you ” (appealing to Kenelm) “ even 
comprehend what I mean by the verses ? ” 

Kenelm.— “ Do you comprehend, Tom ? " 

Tom (in a whisper).— ‘‘ No.” 

Kenelm.— I presume that by his flower-girl our friend 
means to represent not only Poetry, but a poetry like his 
own, which is not at all the sort of poetry now in fashion. 
I, however, expand his meaning, and by his llower-girl I un¬ 
derstand any image of natural truth and beauty for which, 
when we are living the artificial life of crowded streets, we 
are too busy to give a penny.” 

“Take it as you please,” said the minstrel, smiling and 
sighing at the same time; “but I have not expressed in 
words that which I did mean half so well as I have ex¬ 
pressed it in my sketch-book.” 

“ Ah ! and how ? ” asked Kenelm. 

“ The Image of my thought in the sketch, be it Poetry 
or whatever you prefer to call it, does* not stand forlorn in 
the crowded streets—the child stands on the brow of the 
green hill, with the city stretched in confused fragments be¬ 
low, and, thoughtless of pennies and passers-by, she is play¬ 
ing with the flowers she has gathered—but in play casting 
them heavenward, and following them with heavenward 
^yes.” 

tnutt^red Kenelm—“good (” am^ then, aftqf 


fCElSfELM CHILLWGL K i 81 

a long pause, he added, in a still lower mutter, “ Pardon me 
that remark of mine the other day about a beef-steak. But 
own that I am right—what you call a sketch from Nature is 
but a sketch of your own thought.” 


CHAPTER X. 

The child with the flower-ball had vanished from the 
brow of the hill ; sinking down amid the streets below, the 
rose-clouds had faded from the horizon ; and night was 
closing round, as the three men entered the thick of the 
town. Tom pressed Kenelm to accompany him to his 
uncle’s, promising him a hearty welcome and bed and 
board, but Kenelm declined. He entertained a strong per¬ 
suasion that it would be better for the desired effect on 
Toni’s mind that he should be left alone with his relations 
that night, but proposed that they should spend the next 
day together, and agreed to call at the veterinary surgeon’s 
in the morning. 

When Tom quitted them at his uncle’s door, Kenelm 
said to the minstrel, “ I suppose you are going to some inn 
—may I accompany you ? We can sup together, and I 
should like to hear you talk upon poetry and Nature.” 

“You flatter me much ; but I have friends in the town, 
with whom I lodge, and they are expecting me. Do you 
not observe that I have changed my dress ? I am not 
known here as the ‘Wandering Minstrel.’ ” 

Kenelm glanced at the man’s attire, and for the first time 
observed the change. It was still picturesque in its way, 
but it was such as gentlemen of the highest rank frequently 
wear in the country—the knickerbocker costume—very 
neat, very new, and complete, to the square-toed shoes with 
their latchets and buckles. 

“I fear,” said Kenelm, gravely, “ that your change of 
dress betokens the neighborhood of those pretty girls of 
whom you spoke in an earlier meeting? According to the 
Darwinian doctrine of selection, fine plumage goes far in 
deciding the preference of Jenny Wren and her sex, only 
we are told tliat fine-feathered birds are very seldom song¬ 
sters as well. It is rather unfair to rivals when you unite 
both attractions.’’ 




fCENELM CfTILLlNGLY. 


1S2 


The minstrel laughed. “There is but one girl in 
friend’s house—his niece ; she is very plain, and only thir^ 
teen. But to me the society of women, whether ugly or 
pretty, is an absolute necessity ; and I have been trudging 
without it for so many days that I can scarcely tell you how 
my thoughts seemed "to shake off the dust of travel when I ^ 
found myself again in the presence of- 

“Petticoat interest,” interrupted Kenelm. “Take care 
of yourself. My poor friend with whom you found me is a 
grave warning against petticoat interest, from which I hope 
to profit. He is passing through a great sorrow ; it miglit 
have been worse than sorrow. My friend is going to stay 
in this town. If you are staying here too, pray let him see 
something of you. It will do him a wondrous good if you 
can beguile him from this real life into the gardens of poet- 
land ; but do not sing nor talk of love to him.” 

“ I honor all lovei;s,” said the minstrel, with real tender¬ 
ness in his tone, “and would willingly serve to cheer or 
comfort your friend, if I could ; but I am bound elsewhere, 
and must leave Luscombe, which I visit on business— 
money business—the day after to-morrow.” 

“ So, too, must I. At least give us both some hours of 
your time to-morrow.” 

“ Certainly ; from twelve to sunset I shall be roving 
about-—a mere idler. If you will both come with me, it will 
be a great pleasure to myself. Agreed ! Well, then, I will 
call at your inn to-morrow at twelve ; and I recommend for 
your inn the one facing us—the Golden Lamb. I have 
heard it recommended for the attributes of civil people and 
good fare.” 

Kenelm felt that he here received his conge^ and well 
“Comprehended the fact that the minstrel, desiring to pre¬ 
serve the secret of his name, did not give the address of the' 
family with whom he was a guest. 

“But one word more,” said Kenelm. “Your host or 
hostess, if resident here, can no doubt, from your descrip¬ 
tion of the little girl and the old man her protector, learn 
the child’s address. If so, I should like my companion to 
make friends with her. Petticoat interest there at least will 
be innocent and safe. And I know nothing so likely to 
keep a big, passionate heart like Tom’s, now aching with a 
horrible void, occupied and softened, and turned to direc¬ 
tions pure and gentle, as an affectionate interest in a little 
child.” 


tTEUELM CHlLLmCLY. 


*83 


The minstrel changed color—he even started. 

“ Sir, are you a wizard, that you say that to me ?” 

“ I am not a wizard, but I guess from your question that 
you have a little child of your own. So much the better ; 
the child may keep you out of much mischief. Remember 
the little child. Good-evening." 

Kenelm crossed the threshold of the Golden Lamb, en¬ 
gaged his room, made his ablutions, ordered, and, with his 
usual zest, partook of, his evening meal ; and then, feeling 
the pressure of that melancholic temperament which he so 
strangely associated with Herculean constitutions, roused 
himself up, and, seeking a distraction from thought, saun¬ 
tered forth into the gas-lit streets. 

It was a large, handsome town—handsomer than Tor- 
Hadham, on account of its site in a valley surrounded by 
wooded hills and watered by the fair stream whose windings 
we have seen as a brook—handsomer, also, because it boasted 
a fair cathedral, well cleared to the sight, and surrounded 
by venerable old houses, the residences of the clergy, or of 
the quiet lay gentry with mediaeval taste. The main street 
was thronged with passengers—some soberly returning 
home from the evening service—some, the younger, linger¬ 
ing in pleasant promenade with their sweethearts or fami¬ 
lies, or arm in arm with each other and having the air of 
bachelors or maidens unattached. Through this street Ken¬ 
elm passed with inattentive eye. A turn to the right took 
him towards the cathedral and its surroundings. There all 
was solitary. The solitude pleased him, and he lingered 
long, gazing on the noble church lifting its spires and tur¬ 
rets into the deep-blue starry air. 

Musingly, then, he strayed on, entering a labyrinth of 
gloomy lanes, in which, though the shops were closed, many 
a door stood open, with men of the working class lolling 
against the threshold, idly smoking their pipes, or women 
seated on the door-steps gossiping, while noisy children 
were playing or quarrelling in the kennel. The whole did 
not present the indolent side of an English Sabbath in the 
pleasantest and rosiest point of view. Somewhat quicken¬ 
ing his steps, he entered a broader street, attracted to it in¬ 
voluntarily by a bright light in the centre. On nearing the 
light he found that it shone forth from a gin-palace, of 
which the mahogany doors opened and shut momently, as 
customers went in and out. It was the handsomest build- 
mg he had seen in his walk, next to that of the cathedral 


!CEMeLM CHILUbrclV. 


i §4 

The new civilization versus the old,” murmured Kenelm. 
As he so murmured, a hand was laid on his arm with a sort 
of timid impudence. He looked down, and saw a young 
face, but it had survived the look of youth ; it was worn 
and hard, and the bloom on it was not that of Nature’s giv¬ 
ing. “ Are you kind to-night ?” asked a husky voice. 

“ Kind ! ” said Kenelm, with mournful tones and softened 
eyes—“ kind! Alas, my poor sister mortal ! if pity be 
kindness, who can see you and not be kind ?” 

The girl released his arm, and he walked on. She stood 
some moments gazing after him till out of sight, then she 
drew her hand suddenly across her eyes, and, retracing her 
steps, was, in her turn, caught hold of by a rougher hand 
than hers, as she passed the gin-palace. She shook off the 
grasp with a passionate scorn, and went straight home. 
Home I is that the right word ? Poor sister mortal! 


CHAPTER XL 

And now Kenelm found himself at the extremity of the 
town, and on the banks of the river. Small squalid houses 
still lined the bank for some way, till, nearing the bridge, 
they abruptly ceased, and he passed through a broad square 
again into the main street. On the other side of the street 
there was a row of villa-like mansions, with gardens stretch¬ 
ing towards the river. 

All around in the thoroughfare was silent atid deserted. 
By this time the passengers had gone home. The scent of 
night-flowers from the villa gardens came sweet on the star¬ 
lit air. Kenelm paused to inhale it, and then lifting his 
eyes, hitherto downcast, as are the eyes of men in medita¬ 
tive moods, he beheld, on the balcony of the nearest villa, a 
group of well-dressed persons. The balcony was unusually 
wide and spacious. On it was a small round table, on which 
were placed wine and fruits. Three ladies were seated 
round the table on wire-work chairs, and, on the side near¬ 
est to Kenelm, one man. In that man, now slightly turning 
his profile, as if to look towards the river, Kenelm recognized 
the minstrel. He was still in his picturesque knickerbocker 
dress, and his clear-cut features, with the clustering curls 
of hair, and Rubens-like hue and shape of beard, had more 



^cemeIM chillingly. 


185 

than their usual beauty, softened in the light of skies to 
which the moon, just risen, added deeper and fuller radi¬ 
ance. The ladies were in evening dress, but Kenelm could 
not distinguish their faces, hidden behind the minstrel. He 
moved softly across the street, and took his stand behind a 
buttress in the low wall of the garden, from which he could 
have full view of the balcony, unseen himself. In this 
watch he had no other object than that of a vague pleasure. 
The whole grouping had in it a kind of scenic romance, and 
he stopped as one stops before a picture. 

He then saw that of the three ladies one was old ; an¬ 
other was a slight girl, of the age of twelve or thirteen ; the 
third appeared to be somewhere about seven- or eight-and- 
twenty. SKe was dressed with more elegance than the 
others. On her neck, only partially veiled by a thin scarf, 
there was the glitter of jewels ; and, as she now turned her 
full face towards the moon, Kenelm saw that she was very 
handsome—a striking kind of beauty, calculated to fascinate 
a poet or an artist—not unlike Raffaele’s Fornarina, dark, 
with warm tints. 

Now there appeared at the open window a stout, burly, 
middle-aged gentleman, looking every inch of him a family 
man, a moneyed man, sleek and prosperous. He was bald, 
fresh-colored, and with light whiskers. 

“ Holloa,” he said, in an accent very slightly foreign, 
and with a loud clear voice, which Kenelm heard distinctly, 
is it not time for you to come in ? ” 

“ Don’t be so tiresome, Fritz,” said the handsome lady, 
half petulantly, half playfully, in the way ladies address 
the tiresome spouses whom they lord it over. “ Your friend 
has been sulking the whole evening, and is only just begin¬ 
ning to be pleasant as the moon rises.” 

“ The moon has a good effect on poets and other mad 
folks, I daresay,” said the bald man, with a good-humored 
laugh. “ But I can’t have my little niece laid up again just 
as she is on the mend. Annie, come in.” 

The girl obeyed reluctantly. The old lady rose too. 

“ Ah, mother, you are wise,” said the bald man ; “ and 
a game at euchre is safer than poetizing in night air.” He 
wound his arm around the old lady with a careful fondness, 
for she moved with some difficulty, as if rather lame. “As 
for you two sentimentalists and moon-gazers, I give you ten 
minutes’ law—not more, mind.” 

“ Tyrant I ” said the minstrel. 


1^6 


ICENELM CHILLWGLY, 


The balcony now only held two forms—the minstrel and 
the handsome lady. The window was closed, and partially 
veiled by muslin draperies, but Kenelm caught glimpses of 
the room within. He could see that the room, lit by a lamp 
on the centre-table, and candles elsewhere, was decorated 
and fitted up with cost, and in a taste not English. He 
could see, for instance, that the ceiling was painted, and the 
walls were not papered, but painted in panels between ara¬ 
besque pilasters. 

“ They are foreigners,” thought Kenelm, “ though the 
man does speak English so well. That accounts for playing 
euchre of a Sunday evening, as if there were no harm in it. 
Euchre is an American game. The man is called Fritz. Ah! 
I guess—Germans who have lived a good deal in America; 
and the verse-maker said he was at Luscombe on pecuniary 
business. Doubtless his host is a merchant, and the verse- 
maker in some commercial firm. That accounts for his con¬ 
cealment of name, and fear of its being known that he was 
addicted, in his holiday, to tastes and habits so opposed to 
his calling.” 

While he was thus thinking, the lady had drawn her 
chair close to the minstrel, and was speaking to him with 
evident earnestness, but in tones too low for Kenelm to 
hear. Still it seemed to him, by her manner and by the 
man’s look, as if she were speaking in some sort of reproach, 
which he sought to deprecate. Then he spoke, also in a 
whisper, and she averted her face for a moment—then she 
held out her hand, and the minstrel kiss.ed it. Certainly, 
thus seen, the two might well be taken for lovers ; and the 
soft night, the fragrance of the flowers, silence and solitude, 
stars and moonlight, all girt them as with an atmosphere of 
love. Presently the man rose and leaned over the balconv, 
propping his cheek on his hand, and gazing on the river. 
I he lady rose too, and also leaned over the balustrade, her- 
dark hair almost touching the auburn locks of her com¬ 
panion. 

Kenelm sighed. Was it from envy, from pity, from fear ? 
I know not ; but he sighed. 

After a brief pause, the lady said, still in low tones, but 
not too low this time to escape Kenelm’s fine sense of hearing: 

‘‘Tell me those verses again. I must remember every 
word of them when you are gone.” 

The man shook his head gently, and answered, but in 
audibly. 


CfirtUEtClY. 


1^7 


“ Do,” said the lady, “ set them to music later , and the 
next time you come I will sing them. I have thought of a 
title for them.” 

“ What ? ” asked the minstrel. 

“ Love’s Quarrel.” 

The minstrel turned his head, and their eyes met, and, 
in meeting, lingered long. Then he moved away, and with 
face turned from her and towards the river, gave the melody 
of has wondrous voice to the following lines ; 


LOVE’S QUARREL 

Standing by the river, gazing on the river. 

See it paved with starbeams; heaven is at our feet. 

Now the wave is troubled, now the rushes quiver; 

Vanished is the starlight—it was a deceit. 

Comes a little cloudlet ’twixt <?urselves and heaven, 

And from all the river fades the silver track; 

Put thine arms around me, whisper low, “ Forgiven !”— 

See how on the river starlight settles back. 

When he had finished, still with face turned aside, the 
lady did not, indeed, whisper forgiven,” nor put her arms 
around him ; but, as if by irresistible impulse, she laid her 
hand lightly on his shoulder. 

The minstrel started. 

There came to his ear—he knew not from whence, from 
whom— 

‘‘ Mischief—mischief ! Remember the little child ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” he said, staring round. “ Did you not hear a 
voice ? ” 

“ Only yours,” said the lady. 

“ It was our guardian angel’s, Amalie. It came in time. 
We will go within.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

The next morning betimes, Kenelm visited Tom at his 
uncle’s home. A comfortable and respectable home it was, 
like that of an owner in easy circumstances. The veterinary 
surgeon himself was intelligent, and apparently educated 
beyond the range of his calling ; a childless widower, be- 



kENRLM CHtlUNGlV. 


tween sixty and seventy, living with a sister, an old maid 
They were evidently much attached to Tom, and delighted 
hy the hope of keeping him with them. Tom himself looked 
rather sad, but not sullen, and his face brightened wonder¬ 
fully at first sight of Kenelm. That oddity made himself iis 
pleasant and as much like other people as he could in con¬ 
versing with the old widower and the old maid, and took 
leave, engaging Tom to be at his inn at half-past twelve and 
spend the day witli him and the minstrel. He then returned 
to the Golden Lamb, and waited there for his first visitant, 
the minstrel. 

That votary of the muse arrived punctually at twelve 
o’clock. His countenance was less cheerful and sunny than 
usual. Kenelm made no allusion to the scene he had wit¬ 
nessed, nor did his visitor seem to suspect that Kenelm had 
witnessed it or been the utterer of that warning voice. 

Kenelm.—“ I have asked my friend Tom Bowl<es to come 
a little later, because I wished you to be of use to him, and, 
in order to be so, I should suggest how :-” 

The Minstrel. —“Pray do.” 

Kenelm.— “ You know that I am not a poet, and I do not 
have much reverence for verse-making, merely as a craft.” 

The Minstrel. —“ Neither have I.” 

Kenelm. —“ But I have a great reverence for poetry as a 
priesthood. I felt that reverence for you when you sketched 
and talked priesthood last evening, and placed in my heart 
—I hope forever while it beats—the image of the child on 
the sunlit hill, high above the abodes of men, tossing her 
flower-ball heavenward, and with heavenward eyes.” 

The singer’s cheek colored high, and his lip quivered ; 
he was very sensitive to praise—most singers are. 

Kenelm resumed : “ I have been educated in the Realistic 
school, and with realism I am discontented, because in realism 
as a school there is no truth. It contains but a bit of truth, 
and that the coldest and hardest bit of it, and he who utters 
a bit of truth and suppresses the rest of it, tells a lie.” 

The Minstrel (slyly).—“ Does the critic who says to 
me, ‘ Sing of beef-steak, because the appetite for food is a 
real vant of daily life, and don’t sing of art and glory and 
love, because in daily life a man may do without such ideas,’ 
—tell a lie ? ” 

Kenelm. —“ Thank you for that rebuke. I submit to it. 
No doubt I did tell a lie—that is, if I were quite in earnest 
in my recommendation; and if not in earnest, why- 




KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


189 


The Minstrel —‘‘ You belied yourself.” 

Kenelm. —“Very likely. I set out on my travels to 
escape from shams, and begin to discover that I am a 
sham par excellence. But I suddenly come across you, as a 
boy dulled by his syntax and his vulgar fractions suddenly 
comes across a pleasant poem or a picture-book and feels his 
wits brighten up. I owe you much ; you have done me a 
world of good.” 

“ I cannot guess how.” 

“ Possibly not, but you have shown me how the realism 
of Nature herself takes color and life and soul when seen on 
the ideal or poetic side of it. It is not exactly the words 
that you say or sing that do me good, but they awaken 
within me new trains of thought, which I seek to follow 
out. The best teacher is the one who suggests rather than 
dogmatizes, and inspires his listener wdth the wish to teach 
himself. Therefore, O singer! whatever be the worth in 
critical eyes of your songs, I am glad to remember that you 
would like to go through the world always singing.” 

“ Pardon me ; you forget that I added, ‘ if life were always 
young, and the seasons were always summer.’” 

“ I do not forget. But if youth and summer fade for 
you, you leave youth and summer behind you as you pas^ 
along—behind in hearts which mere realism would make 
always old, and counting their slothful beats under the gray 
of a sky without sun^or stars ; wherefore I pray you to con¬ 
sider how magnificent a mission the singer’s is—to harmonize 
your life with your song, and toss your flowers, as your 
child does, heavenward, with heavenward eyes. Think only 
of this when you talk with my sorrowing friend, and you 
will do him good, as you have done me, without being able 
to guess how a seeker after the Beautiful, such as you, 
carries us along with him on his way; so that we, too, look 
out for beauty, and see it in the wild-flowers to which we 
had been blind before.” 

Here Tom entered the little sanded parlor where this dia¬ 
logue had been held, and the three men sallied forth, taking 
the shortest cut from the town into the fields and woodlands. 


190 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Whether or not his spirits were raised by Kenelm’s 
praise and exhortations, the minstrel that day talked with a 
charm that spell-bound Tom, and Kenelm was satisfied with 
brief remarks on his side tending to draw out the principal 
performer. 

The talk was drawn from outward things, from natural 
objects—objects that interest children, and men who, like 
Tom Bowles, have been accustomed to view surroundings 
more with the heart’s eye than the mind’s eye. This rover 
about the country knew much of the habits of birds and 
beasts and insects, and told anecdotes ol them with a mixture 
of humor and pathos, which fascinated Tom’s attention, 
made him laugh heartily, and sometimes brought tears into 
his big blue eyes. 

They dined at an inn by the wayside, and the dinner was 
mirthful; then they wended their way slowly back. By the 
declining daylight their talk grew somewhat graver, and 
Kenelm took more part in it. Tom listened mute—still 
fascinated. At length, as the town came in sight, they 
agreed to halt awhile, in a bosky nook soft with mosses and 
sweet with wild thyme. 

There as they lay stretched at their ease, the birds hymn¬ 
ing vesper songs amid the boughs above, or dropping, noise¬ 
less and fearless, for their evening food on.the swards around 
them, the wanderer said to Kenelm, “You tell me that you 
are no poet, yet I am sure you have a poet’s perception ; 
you must have written poetry?” 

“Not I ; as I before told you, only school verses in dead 
languages ; but I found in my knapsack this morning a 
copy of some rhymes, made by a fellow-collegian, which I 
put into my pocket, meaning to read them to you both. 
They are not verses like yours, which evidently burst from 
you spontaneously and are not imitated from any other poets. 
These verses were written by a Scotchman, and smack of 
imitation from the old ballad style. There is little to ad¬ 
mire in the words themselves, but there is something in the 
idea which struck me as original, and impressed me 
sufficiently to heep a copy, and somehow or other it got 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. , 9 , 

into the leaves of one of the two books I carried with me 
from home.” 

“ What are those books ? Books of poetry both, I will 
venture to wager-” 

‘‘ Wrong ! Both metaphysical, and dry as a bone. Tom, 
light your pipe, and you, sir, lean more at ease on your 
elbow ; I should warn you that the ballad is long. Pa¬ 
tience ! ” 

“ Attention ! ” said the minstrel. 

“Fire !” added Tom. 

Kenelm began to read—and he read well : 


LORD RONALD’S BRIDE. 

PART I. 

Why gathers the crowd in the Market-place 
Ere the stirs liave yet left the sky? ” 

“ For a holiday show and an act of grace— 

At the sunrise a witcli shall die.” 

“ What deed has she done to deserve that doom— 

Has she blighted the standing corn, 

Or rifled for philters a dead man’s tomb, 

Or rid mothers of babes new-born ? ” 

Her pact with the Fiend was not thus revealed. 

She taught sinners the Word to hear ; 

The hungry she fed, and the sick she healed, 

And was held as a Saint last year. 

*• But a holy man, who at Rome had been, 

Had discovered, by book and bell. 

That the marvels she wrought were through arts unclean. 
And the lies of the Prince of Hell. 

And our Mother the Church, for the dame was rich. 
And her husband was Lord of Clyde, 

Would fain have been mild to this saint-like witch 
If her sins she had not denied. 

“ But hush, and come nearer to see the sight, 

Sheriff, halberds, and torchmen,—look ! 

That’s the witch, standing mute in her garb of white. 

By the priest with his bell and book.” 

So the witch was consumed on the sacred pyre, 

And the priest grew in power and pride, 

And the witch left a son to succe -d his sirg 

In the halls and the lauds of Clyde, 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


And the infant waxed comely and strong and bTave, 
But his manhood had scarce begun, 

When his vessel was launched on the northern ware, 
To the shores which are near the sun. 


PART II. 

Lord Ronald has come to his halls in Clyde 
With a bride of some unknown race: 

Compared with the man who would kiss that brid« 
Wallace wight were a coward base. 

Her eyes had the glare of the mountain-cat 
When it springs on the hunter’s spear ; 

At the head of the board when that lady sat 
Hungry men could not eat for fear. 

And the tones of her voice had the deadly growl 
Of the bloodhound that scents its prey ; 

No storm was so dark as that lady’s scowl 
Under tresses of wintry gray. 

Lord Ronald ! men marry for love or gold, 

Mickle rich must have been thy bride !” 

“ Man’s heart may be bought, woman’s hand be sold , 
On the banks of our northern Clyde. 

“ My bride is, in sooth, mickle rich to me, 

Though she brought not a groat in dower, 

For her face, couldst thou see it as I do see. 

Is the fairest in hall or bower ! ” 

Quoth the bishop one day to our lord the king, 

“ Satan reigns on the Clyde alway, 

And the taint in the blood of the witch doth cling 
To the child that she brought to day. 

“Lord Ronald hath come from the Paynim land 
With a bride that appalls the sight; 

Like his dam she hath moles on her dread right hand. 
And she turns to a snake at night. 

“ It is plain that a Scot who can blindly dote 
On the face of an Eastern ghoul, 

And a ghoul who was worth not a silver groat. 

Is a Scot who has lost his soul. 

“ It were wise to have done with this demon tre« 
Which has teemed with such cankered fruit: 

Add the soil where it stands to my holy S«e, 

And consign to the flames its root.” 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 




“ Holy man ! ” quoth King James, and he laughed, ** we know 
That thy tongue never wags in vain, 

But the Church cist is full, and the king’s is low, 

And the Clyde is a fair domain. 

Yet a knight that’s bewitched by a laidly fere 
Needs not much to dissolve the spell; 

We will summon the bride and the bridegroom here, 

Be at hand with thy book and bell.” 


PART III. 

Lord Ronald stood up in King James’s court, 

And his dame by his dauntless side; 

The barons who came in the hopes of sport 
Shook with fright when they saw the bride. 

The bishop, though armed with his bell and book, 

Grew as white as if turned to stone. 

It was only our king who could face that look, 

But he spoke with a trembling tone : 

“Lord Ronald, the knights of thy race and mine 
Should have mates in their own degree; 

What parentage, say, hath that bride of thine 
Who hath come from the far countree ? 

“ And what was her dowry in gold or land. 

Or what was the charm, I pray, 

That a comely young gallant should woo the hand 
Of the ladye we see to-day ? ” 

And the lords would have laughed, but that awful dame 
Struck them dumb with her thunder-frown : 

“ Saucy king, did I utter my father’s name, 

Thou wouldst kneel as his liegeman down. 

“ Though I brought to Lord Ronald nor lands nor gold, 
Nor the bloom of a fading cheek; 

Yet, were I a widow, both young and old 
Would my hand and my dowry seek. 

“For the wish that he covets the most below, 

And would hide from the saints above. 

Which he dares not to pray for in weal or woe. 

Is the dowry I bring my love. 

“ Let every man look in his heart and see 
What the wish he mosts lusts to win. 

And then let him fasten his eyes on me 
While he thiqks of his darling sin,” 

9 


194 


^KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


And every man—bishop, and lord, and king— 

Thought of that he most wished to win, 

And, fixing his eye on that gruesome thing, 

He beheld his own darling sin. 

No longer a ghoul in that face he saw. 

It was fair as a boy’s first love; 

The voice which had curdled his veins with awe 
Was the coo of the woodland dove. 

Each heart was on flame for the peerless dame 
At the price of the husband’s life; 

Bright claymores flash_^t, and loud voices shout, 

“ In thy widow shallbe my wife,” 

Then darkness fell over the palace hall, 

More dark and more dark it fell, ' 

And a death-groan boomed hoarse underneath the pallj, 
And was drowned amid roar and yell. 

When light through the lattice-pane stole once more. 
It was gray as a wintry dawn. 

And the bishop lay cold on the regal floor, 

With a stain on his robes of lawn. 

Lord Ronald was standing beside the dead, 

In the scabbard he plunged his sword, 

And with visage as wan as the corpse, he said, 

“ Lo ! my ladye hath kept her word. 

** Now I leave her to others to woo and win. 

For no longer I find her fair ; 

Could I look on the face of my darling sin, 

I should see but a dead man’s there. 

“ And the dowry she brought me is here returned, 

For the wish of my heart has died, 

It is quenched in the blood of the priest who burned 
My sweet mother, the Saint of Clyde.” 

Lord Ronald strode over the stony floor, 

Not a hand was outstretched to stay ; 

Lord Ronald has passed through the gaping door. 

Not an eye ever traced his way. 

And the ladye, left widowed, was prized above 
All the maidens in hall and bower. 

Many bartered their lives for that ladye’s love, 

And their souls for that ladye’s dower. 

God grant that the wish which I dare not pray 
Be not that which I lust to win. 

And that ever I look with my first dismay 
Qn the face of my darling sin ! 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Jf 9 J 

As he ceased, Kenelm’s eye fell on Tom’s face up-turned 
to his own, with open lips, and intent stare, and paled cheeks, 
and a look of that higher sort of terror which belongs to awe 
The man, then recovering himself, tried to speak, and at¬ 
tempted a sickly smile, but neither would do. He rose ab¬ 
ruptly and walked away, crept under the shadow of a dark 
beech-tree, and stood there leaning against the trunk. 

What say you to the ballad ?” asked Kenelm of the 
singer. 

It is not without power,” answered he. 

“ Ay, of a certain kind.” 

The minstrel looked hard at Kenelm, and dropped his 
eyes, with a heightened glow on his cheek. 

“ The Scotch are a thoughtful race. The Scot who wrote 
this thing may have thought of a day when he saw beauty in 
the face of a darling sin ; but if so, it is evident that his 
sight recovered from that glamoury. Shall we walk on ? 
Come, Tom.” 

The minstrel left them at the entrance of the town, say¬ 
ing, “ I regret that I cannot see more of either of you, as I 
quit Luscombe at daybreak. Here, by the by, I forgot to 
give it before, is the address you wanted.” 

Kenelm.—“ Of the little child. I am glad you remem¬ 
bered her.” 

The minstrel again looked hard at Kenelm, this time with¬ 
out dropping his eyes. Kenelm’s expression of face was so 
simply quiet that it might be almost called vacant. 

Kenelm and Tom continued to walk on towards the vet¬ 
erinary surgeon’s house, for some minutes silently. Then 
Tom said in a whisper, “ Did not you mean those rhymes to 
hit me here— here ? ” and he struck his breast. 

“ The rhymes were written long before I saw you, Tom ; 
but it is well if their meaning strike us all. Of you, my 
friend, I have no fear now. Are you not already a changed 
man ? ” 

“ I feel as if I were going through a change,” answered 
Tom, in slow, dreary accents. “In hearing you and that 
gentleman talk so much of things that I never thought of, I 
felt something in me—you will laugh when I tell you—some¬ 
thing like a bird.” 

“ Like a bird—good ! a bird has wings.” 

“Just so.” 

“ And you felt wings that you were unconscious of before, 
fluttering and beating themselves as against the wires of a 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


196 

cage. You were true to your instincts then, my dear fellow* 
man—instincts of space and heaven. Courage !—the cage- 
door will open soon. And now, practically speaking, I give 
you this advice in parting: you have a quick and sensitive 
mind which you have allowed that strong body of yours to 
incarcerate and suppress. Give that mind fair play. Attend 
to the business of your calling diligently ; the craving for 
regluar work is the healthful appetite of mind ; but in your 
spare hours cultivate the new ideas which your talk with men 
who have been accustomed to cultivate the mind more than 
the body, has sown within you. Belong to a book-club, and 
interest yourself in books. A wise man has said, ‘ Books 
widen the present by adding to it the past and the future.* 
Seek the company of educated men, and educated women 
too ; and when you are angry with another, reason with him 
—don’t knock him down ; and don’t be knocked down your¬ 
self by an enemy much stronger than yourself—Drink. Do 
all this, and when I see you again you will be-” 

“ Stop, sir—you will see me again ? ” 

*‘Yes, if we both live, I promise it.” 

‘‘When?” 

“You see, Tom, we have both of us something in our old 
selves which we must work off. You will work off your 
something by repose, and I must work off mine, if I can, by 
moving about. So I am on my travels. May we both have 
new selves better than the old selves, when we again shake 
hands. For your part try your best, dear Tom, and heaven 
prosper you.” 

“And heaven bless you!” cried Tom, fervently, with 
tears rolling unheeded from his bold blue eyes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Though Kenelm left Luscombe on Tuesday morning, he 
did not appear at Neesdale Park till the Wednesday, a little 
before the dressing-bell for dinner. His adventures in the 
interim are not worth repeating. He had lioped he might 
fall in again with the minstrel, but he did not. 

His portmanteau had arrived, and he heaved a sigh as he 
cased himself in a gentleman’s evening dress, “Alas ! I havo 
soon got back again into my own skin.” 




kENELM CntLLlkGLY, 


197 


There were several other guests in the house, though not 
ft large party. They had been asked with an eye to the ap¬ 
proaching election, consisting of squires and clergy from 
remoter parts of the county. Chief among the guests in 
rank and importance, and rendered by the occasion the cen¬ 
tral object of interest, was George Belvoir. 

Kenelm bore his part in this society with a resignation 
that partook of repentance. 

The first day he spoke very little, and was considered a 
very dull young man by the lady he took in to dinner. Mr. 
Travers in vain tried to draw him out. He had anticipated 
much amusement from the eccentricities of his guest, who 
had talked volubly enough in the fernery, and was sadly 
‘disappointed. “ I feel,” he whispered to Mrs. Campion, 
“ like poor Lord Pomfret, who, charmed with Punch’s lively 
conversation, bought him, and was greatly surprised that, 
when he had brought him home, Punch would not talk.” 

“ But your Punch listens,” said Mrs. Campion, “ and he 
observes.” 

George Belvoir, on the other hand, was universally de¬ 
clared to be very agreeable. Though not naturally jovial, 
he forced himself to appear so—laughing loud with the 
squires, and entering heartily with their wives and daugh¬ 
ters into such topics as county-balls and croquet-parties ; 
and when after dinner he had, Cato-like, warmed his vir¬ 
tue with wine,” the virtue came out very lustily in praise of 
good men—viz., men of his own party—and anathema on 
bad men—viz., men of the other party. 

Now and then he appealed to Kenelm, and Kenelm al¬ 
ways returned the same answer, There is much in what 
you say.” 

The first evening closed in the usual way in country- 
houses. There was some lounging under moonlight on the 
terrace before the house; then there was some singing by 
young lady amateurs, and a rubber of whist for the elders ; 
then wine-and-water, hand-candlesticks, a smoking-room for 
those who smoked, and beds for those who did not. 

In the course of the evening, Cecilia, partly in obedience 
to the duties of hostess, and partly from that compassion 
for shyness which kindly and high-bred persons entertain, 
had gone a little out of her way to allure Kenelm forth from 
the estranged solitude he had contrived to weave around 
him ; in vain for the daughter as for the father. He replied 
to her with the quiet self-possession which should have con 


KEN ELM CHILTJKGLY, 


i^s 

yinced her that no man on earth was less entitled to induL 
gence for the gentlemanlike infirmity of shyness, and no 
man less needed the duties of any hostess for the augmen¬ 
tation of his comforts, or rather for Ids diminished sense of 
discomfort ; but his replies were in monosyllables, and made 
with the air of a man who says in his heart, “ If this crea¬ 
ture would but leave me alone ! ” 

Cecilia, for the first time in her life, was piqued, and, 
strange to say, began to feel more interest about this in¬ 
different stranger than about the popular, animated, pleas¬ 
ant George Belvoir, who she knew by womanly instinct was 
as much in love with her as he could be. 

Cecilia Travers that night, on retiring to rest, told her 
maid, smilingly^ that she was too tired to have her hair 
done; and yet, when the maid was dismissed, she looked at 
herself in the glass more gravely and more discontentedly 
than she had ever looked there before, and tired though 
she was, stood at the window gazing into the moonlit night 
for a good hour after the maid had left her. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Kenelm Chillingly has now been several days a guest 
at Neesdale Park. He has recovered speech; the other 
guests have gone, including George Belvoir. Leopold 
Travers has taken a great fancy to Kenelm. Leopold was 
one of those men, not uncommon perhaps in England, who, 
with great mental energies, have little book-knowledge, and 
when they come in contact with a book-reader who is not a 
pedant, feel a pleasant excitement in his society, a source of 
interest in comparing notes with him, a constant surprise in 
finding by what venerable authorities the deductions which 
their own mother-wit has drawn from life are supported, or 
by what cogent arguments, derived from books, those de¬ 
ductions are contravened or upset. Leopold Travers had 
in him that sense of humor which generally accompanies a 
strong practical understanding (no man, for instance, has 
more practical understanding than a Scot, and no man has 
a keener susceptibility to humor), and not only enjoyed 
Kenelm’s odd way of expressing himself, but very often 
mistook Kenelm’s irony for opinion spoken in earnest 



KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


199 


Since his early removal from the capital and his devotion 
to agricultural pursuits, it was so seldom that Leopold 
Travers met a man by whose conversation his mind was di¬ 
verted to other subjects than those which were incidental to 
the commonplace routine of his life, that he found in Ken- 
elm’s views of men and things a source of novel amusement, 
and a stirring appeal to such metaphysical creeds of his own 
as had been formed unconsciously, and had long reposed un¬ 
examined in the recesses of an intellect shrew^d and strong, 
but more accustomed to dictate than to argue. Kenelm, on 
his side, saw much in his host to like and to admire ; but, 
reversing their relative positions in point of years, he con¬ 
versed wdth Travers as with a mind younger than his own. 
Indeed, it was one of his crotchety theories that each gene¬ 
ration is in substance mentally older than the generation 
preceding it, especially in all that relates to science ; and, 
as he would say, “ The study of life is a science, and not 
an art.’* 

But Cecilia,—what impression did she create upon the 
young visitor ? Was he alive to the charms of her rare 
beauty, to the grace of a mind sufficiently stored for com¬ 
mune with those who loved to think and to imagine, and 
yet sufficiently feminine and playful to seize the sportive 
side of realities and allow their proper place to the trifles 
which make the sum of human things ? An impression she 
did make, and that impression was new to him and pleasing. 
Nay, sometimes in her presence, and sometimes when alone, 
he fell into abstracted consultations with himself, saying, 
“ Kenelm Chillingly, now that thou hast got back into thy 
proper skin, dost thou not think that thou hadst better re¬ 
main there ? Couldst thou not be contented with thy lot as 
erring descendant of Adam, if thou couldst win for thy mate 
so faultless a descendant of Eve as now flits before thee ? ’* 
But he could not extract from himself any satisfactory an¬ 
swer to the questions he had addressed to himself. 

Once he said abruptly to Travers, as, on their return from 
their rambles, they caught a glimpse of Cecilia’s light form 
bending over the flower-beds on the lawm, “ Do you admire 
Virgil?” 

“ To say truth, I have not read Virgil since I was a boy , 
and, between you and me, I then thought him rather monotO' 
nous.” 

“ Perhaps because his verse is so smooth in its beauty ?’ 

“ Probably. When one is very young one’s taste is faulty ,* 


200 


KENRLM cmrxlNGLY. 


and if a poet is not faulty, we are apt to think he wants 
Vivacity and fire.” 

“ Thank you for your lucid explanation,” answered Ken- 
elm, adding musingly to himself, “ I am afraid I should yawn 
very often if I were married to a Miss Virgil.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The house of Mr. Travers contained a considerable collec¬ 
tion of family portraits, few of them well painted, but the 
Squire was evidently proud of such evidences of ancestry. 
They not only occupied a considerable space on the walls of 
the reception-rooms, but swarmed into the principal sleeping- 
chambers, and smiled or frowned on the beholder from dark 
passages and remote lobbies. One morning Cecilia, on her 
way to the China Closet, found Kenelm gazing very intently 
upon a female portrait consigned to one of these obscure 
receptacles by which through a back staircase he gained the 
only approach from the hall to his chamber. 

“ I don’t pretend to be a good judge of paintings,” said 
Kenelm, as Cecilia paused beside him ; “but it strikes me 
that this picture is very much better than most of those to 
which places of honor are assigned in your collection. And 
the face itself is so lovely that it would add an embellishment 
to the princeliest galleries.” 

“ Yes,” said Cecelia, with a half-sigh. “ The face is love¬ 
ly, and the portrait is considered one of Lely’s rarest master¬ 
pieces. It used to hang over the chimney-piece in the draw¬ 
ing-room. My father had it placed here many years ago.” 

“ Perhaps because he discovered it was not a family por¬ 
trait?” 

“ On the contrary—because it grieves him to think it is a 
family portrait. Hush ! I hear his footstep ; don’t speak of 
it to him ; don’t let him see you looking at it. The subject 
is very painful to him.” 

Here Cecilia vanished into the China Closet, and Kenelm 
turned off to his own room. 

What sin committed by the original in the time of Charles 
II., but only discovered in the reign of Victoria, could have 
justified Leopold Travers in removing the most pleasing por 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


26 t 


trait in the house from the honored place it had occupied^ 
and banishing it to so obscure a recess ? Kenelm said no 
more on the subject, and indeed an hour afterwards had dis¬ 
missed it from his thoughts. The next day he rode out with 
Travers and Cecilia. Their way passed through quiet shady 
lanes without any purposed direction, when suddenly, at the 
spot where three of those lanes met on an a ogle of common 
ground, a lonely gray tower, in the midst o\ a wide space of 
grass land which looked as if it had once been a park, with 
huge boles of pollarded oak dotting the space here and there, 
rose before them. 

“ Cissy ! ” cried Travers, angrily reining in his horse and 
stopping short in a political discussion which he had forced 
upon Kenelm—“ Cissy! How comes this ? We have taken 
the wrong turn! No matter: I see there,” pointing to the 
right, “the chimney-pots of old Mondell’s homestead. He 
has not yet promised his vote to George Belvoir. I’ll go and 
have a talk with him. Turn back, you and Mr. Chillingly 
—meet me at Turner’s Green, and wait for me there till I 
come. I need not excuse myself to you. Chillingly. A vote 
is a vote.” So saying, the Squire, whose ordinary riding- 
horse was an old hunter, halted, turned, and, no gate being 
visible, put the horse over a stiff fence and vanished in the di¬ 
rection of old Mondell’s chimney-pots. Kenelm, scarcely 
hearing his host’s instructions to Cecilia and excuses to him¬ 
self, remained still and gazing on the old gray tower thus 
abruptly obtruded on his view. 

Though no learned antiquarian like his father, Kenelm 
had a strange fascinating interest in all relics of the past; 
and old gray towers, where they are not church towers, are 
very rarely to be seen in England. All around the old gray 
tower spoke with an unutterable mournfulness of the past 
in ruins : you could see remains of some large Gothic build¬ 
ing once attached to it, rising here and there in fragments 
of deeply-buttressed walls ; you could even see in a dry ditch, 
between high ridges, where there had been a fortified moat; 
nay, you could even see where once had been the bailey hill 
from which a baron of old had dispensed justice. Seldom in¬ 
deed does the most acute of antiquarians discover that rem» 
nant of Norman times on lands still helchby the oldest of An¬ 
glo Norman families. Then, the wild nature of the demesne 
around; those ranges of sward, with those old giant oak- 
trunks, hollowed within and pollarded at top; all spoke, in 
unison with the gray tower, of a past as remote from the 

9 * 


KENELM CniLLmClV, 


t02 

reign of Victoria as^the Pyramids are from the sway of the 
Viceroy of Egypt. 

“ Let us turn back,” said Miss Travers ; “ my father would 
not like me to stay here.” 

“ Pardon me a moment. I wish my father were here ; 
he would stay till sunset. But what is the history of that 
old tower ?—a history it must have.” 

“ Every home has a history—even a peasant’s hut,” said 
Cecilia. But do pardon me if I ask you to comply with my 
father’s request. I at least must turn back.” 

Thus commanded, Kenelm reluctantly withdrew his gaze 
from the ruin and regained Cecilia, who was already some 
paces in return down the lane. 

“ I am far from a very inquisitive man by temperament,” 
said Kenelm, “ so far as the affairs of the living are concerned. 
But I should not care to open a book if I had no interest in 
the past. Pray indulge my curiosity to learn something about 
that old tower. It could not look more melancholy and soli¬ 
tary if I had built it myself.” 

“ Its most melancholy associations are with a very recent 
past,” answered Cecilia. “ The tower, in remote times, 
formed the keep of a castle belonging to the most ancient 
and once the most powerful family in these parts. The 
owners were barons who took active share in the Wars of 
the Roses. The last of them sided with Richard III., and 
after the battle of Bosworth the title was attainted, and the 
larger portion of the lands were confiscated. Loyalty to 
a Plantagenet was of course treason to a Tudor. But the 
regeneration of the family rested with their airect descend¬ 
ants, who had saved from the general wreck of their for¬ 
tunes what may be called a good squire’s estate—about, 
perhaps, the same rental as my father’s, but of much larger 
acreage. These squires, however, were more looked up to 
in the county than the wealthiest peer. They were still by 
far the oldest family in the county ; and traced in their 
pedigree alliances with the most illustrious houses in Eng¬ 
lish history. In themselves too, for many generations, they 
were a high-spirited, hospitable, popular race, living un¬ 
ostentatiously on their income, and contented with their 
rank of squires. The castle—ruined by time and siege— 
they did not attempt to restore. They dwelt in a house 
near to it, built about Elizabeth’s time, which you could 
not see, for it lies in a hollow behind the tower—a moder¬ 
ate-sized, picturesque, country gentleman’s house. Our 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


203 

family intel^frlai^i-ied with them. Thtj portrait you saw was 
a daughter of their house. And very proud was any squire 
in the county of intermarriage with the Fletwodes.” 

“ Fletwode—that was their name ? I have a vague re¬ 
collection of having heard the name connected with some 
disastrous —oh, but it can’t be the same family—pray go on.’ 

“ I fear it is the same family. But I will finish the story 
as I have heard it. The property descended at last to one 
Bertram Fletwode, who, unfortunately, obtained the repu¬ 
tation of being a very clever man of business. There was 
some mining company in which, with other gentlemen in 
the county, he took great interest; invested largely in 
shares ; became the head of the direction-” 

“ I see ; and was, of course, ruined.” 

“ No : worse than that, he became very rich ; and, un¬ 
happily, became desirous of being richer still. I have heard 
that there was a great mania for speculations just about 
that time. He embarked in these, and prospered, till at 
last he was induced to invest a large share of the fortune 
thus acquired in the partnership of a bank, which enjoyed 
a high character. Up to that time he had retained popu¬ 
larity and esteem in the county ; but the squires who shared 
in the adventures of the mining company, and knew little 
or nothing about other speculations in which his name did 
not appear, professed to be shocked at the idea of a Flet¬ 
wode, of Fletwode, being ostensibly joined in partnership 
with a Jones, of Clapham, in a London bank.” 

“ Slow folks, those country squires,—behind the pro¬ 
gress of the age. Well ? ” 

“ I have heard that Bertram Fletwode was liimself very 
reluctant to take this step, but was persuaded to do so by 
his son. This son, Alfred, was said to have still greater 
talents for business than the father, and had been not only 
associated with but consulted by him in all the later specu¬ 
lations which had proved so fortunate. Mrs. Campion knew 
Alfred Fletwode very well. She describes him as hand¬ 
some, with quick, eager e)"es ; showy and imposing in his 
talk ; immensely ambitious—more ambitious than avari¬ 
cious,—collecting money less fol* its own sake than for that 
which it could give—rank and power. According to her it 
was the dearest wish of his heart to claim the old barony, 
but not before there could go with the barony a fortune 
adequate to the lustre of a title so ancient, and equal to ther 
wealth of modern peers with higher nominal rank.” 


204 


KEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


“ A poor ambition at the best; of the two I should pre- 
fer that of a poet in a garret. But I am no judge. Thank 
heaven I have no ambition. Still, all ambition, all desire 
to rise, is interesting to him who is ignominiously contented 
if he does not fall. So the son had his way, and Fletwode 
joined company with Jones on the road to wealth and the 
peerage ?—meanwhile, did the son marry ? if so, of course 
the daughter of a duke or a millionaire. Tuft-hunting, or 
money-making, at the risk of degradation and the work¬ 
house. Progress of the age ! ” 

“ No,” replied Cecilia, smiling at this outburst, but 
smiling sadly, “ Fletwode did not marry the daughter of a 
duke or a millionaire ; but still his wife belonged to a noble 
family—very poor, but very proud. Perhaps he married 
from motives of ambition, though not of gain. Her father 
was of much political influence that might perhaps assist 
his claim to the barony. The mother, a woman of the 
world ; enjoying a high social position, and nearly related to 
a connection of ours—Lady Glenalvon.” 

“ Lady Glenalvon, the dearest of my lady friends ! You 
are connected with her ? ” 

“Yes ; Lord Glenalvon was my mother’s uncle. But I 
wish to finish my story before my father joins us. Alfred 
Fletwode did not marry till long after the partnership in the 
bank. His father, at his desire, had bought up the whole 
business,—Mr. Jones having died. The bank was carried 
on in the names of Fletwode and Son. But the father had 
become merely a nominal, or what I believe is called, a 
‘ sleeping ’ partner. He had long ceased to reside in the 
county. The old house was not grand enough for him. 
He had purchased a palatial residence in one of the home 
counties ; lived there in great splendor ; was a munificent 
patron of science and art ; and in spite of his earlier addic 
tion to business-like speculations, he appears to have been 
a singularly accomplished, high-bred gentleman. Some 
years before his son’s marriage, Mr. Fletwode had been 
afflicted with partial paralysis, and his medical attendant 
enjoined rigid abstention from business. From that time 
he never interfered with his son’s management of the bank. 
He had an only daughter, much younger than Alfred. Lord 
Eagleton, my mother’s brother, was engaged to be married 
to her. The wedding-day was fixed—when the world was 
startled by the news that the great firm of Fletwode and 
Son had stopped payment,—is that the right phrase ? ” 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


205 


** I believe so.” 

“ A great many people were ruined in that failure. The 
public indignation was very great. Of course all the Flet- 
wode property went to the creditors. Old Mr. Fletwode was 
legally acquitted of all other offence than that of over-confi¬ 
dence in his son. Alfred was convicted of fraud—of forgery. 
I don’t, of course, know the particulars,—they are very com¬ 
plicated. He was sentenced to a long term of servitude, 
but died the day he was condemned—apparently by poison, 
which he had long secreted about his person. Now you 
can understand why my father, who is almost gratuitously 
sensitive on the point of honor, removed into a dark corner 
the portrait of Arabella Fletwode,—his own ancestress, but 
also the ancestress of a convicted felon,—you can under¬ 
stand why the whole subject is so painful to him. His 
wife’s brother was to have married the felon’s sister ; and 
though, of course, that marriage was tacitly broken off by 
the terrible disgrace that had befallen the Fletwodes, yet I 
don’t think my poor uncle ever recovered the blow to his 
hopes. He went abroad, and died in Madeira, of a slow 
decline.” 

“And the felon’s sister, did she die too ?” 

“ No ; not that I know of. Mrs. Campion says that she 
saw in a newspaper the announcement of old Mr. Fletwode’s 
death, and a paragraph to the effect that after that event 
Miss Fletwode had sailed from Liverpool for New York.” 

“ Alfred Fletwode’s wife went back, of course, to her 
family ?” 

“ Alas ! no,—poor thing ! She had not been many months 
married when the bank broke ; and among his friends her 
wretched husband appears to have forged the names of the 
trustees to her marriage settlement, and sold out the sums 
which would otherwise have served her as a competence. 
Her father, too, was a great sufferer by the bankruptcy, 
having by his son-in-law’s advice placed a considerable por¬ 
tion of his moderate fortune in Alfred’s hands for investment, 
all of which was involved in the general wreck. I am afraid 
he was a very hard-hearted man ; at all events, his poor 
daughter never returned to him. She died, I think, even 
before the death of Bertram Fletwode. The whole story is 
very dismal.” 

“ Dismal indeed, but pregnant with salutary warnings to 
those who live in an age of progress. Here you see a family 
of fair fortune, living hospitably, beloved, revered, more 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


looked up to by their neighbors than the wealthiest nobles 
—no family not proud to boast alliance with it. All at once, 
in the tranquil records of this happy race, appears that 
darling of the age, that hero of progress—a clever man of 
business. He be contented to live as his fathers! He be 
contented with such trifles as competence, respect, and love ! 
Much too clever for that. The age is money-making—go 
with the age ! He goes with the age. Born a gentleman 
only, he exalts himself into a trader. But at least he, it 
seems, if greedy, was not dishonest. He was born a gentle¬ 
man, but his son was born a trader. The son is a still 
cleverer man of business ; the son is consulted and trusted. 
Aha ! He too goes with the age ; to greed he links ambition. 
The traders son wishes to return—what? to the rank of 
gentleman ?—gentleman ! nonsense ! everybody is a gentle¬ 
man nowadays—to the title of Lord. How ends it all ? 
Could I sit but for twelve hours in the innermost heart of 
that Alfred Fletwode—could I see how, step by step from 
his childhood, the dishonest son was avariciously led on by 
the honest father to depart from the old vestigia of Fletwodes 
of Fletwode—scorning The Enough to covet The More- 
gaining The More to sigh it is not The Enough—I think I 
might show that the age lives in a house of glass, and had 
better not for its own sake throw stones on the felon! ” 

“ Ah, but, Mr. Chillingly, surely this is a very rare ex¬ 
ception in the general-” 

“ Rare ! ” interrupted Kenelm, who was excited to a 
warmth of passion which would have startled his most inti¬ 
mate friend—if indeed an intimate friend had ever been 
vouchsafed to him—“ rare ! nay, how common—I don't say 
to the extent of forgery and fraud, but to the extent of de¬ 
gradation and ruin—is the greed of a Little More to those 
who have The Enough ; is the discontent with competence, 
respect, and love, when catching sight of a money-bag ! 
How many well-descended county families, cursed with an 
heir who is called a clever man of business, have vanished 
from the soil ! A company starts—the clever man joins it 
—one bright day. Pouf ! the old estates and the old name 
are powder. Ascend higher. Take nobles whose ancestral 
titles ought to be to English ears like the sound of clarions, 
awakening the most slothful to the scorn of money-bags and 
the passion for renown. Lo ! in that mocking dance of 
death called the Progress of the Age, one who did not find 
Enough in a sovereign’s revenue, and seeks the Eitfle Mpr^ 


KENELM cm LUNG L K 


207 


as a gambler on the turf by the advice of blacklegs ! Lo ! 
another, with lands wider than his greatest ancestors ever 
possessed, must still go in for The Little More, adding acre 
to acre, heaping debt upon debt ! Lo ! a third, whose name, 
borne by his ancestors, was once the terror of England’s 
foes—the landlord of a hotel ! A fourth—but why go on 
through the list ? Another and another still succeeds—each 
on the Road to Ruin, each in the Age of Progress. Ah, 
Miss Travers ! in the old time it was through the Temple 
of Honor that one passed to the Temple of Fortune. In 
this wise age the process is reversed. But here comes your 
father.” 

“ A thousand pardons ! ” said Leopold Travers. “ That 
numskull Mondell kept me so long with his old-fashioned 
Tory doubts whether liberal politics are favorable to agricul¬ 
tural prospects. But as he owes a round sum to a Whig 
lawyer I had to talk with his wife, a prudent woman ; con¬ 
vinced her that his own agricultural prospects were safest 
on the Whig side of the question; and, after kissing the 
baby and shaking his hand, booked his vote for George 
Belvoir—a plumper.’* 

“ I suppose,” said Kenelm to himself, and with that can¬ 
dor which characterized him whenever he talked to himself, 
“ that Travers has taken the right road to the Temple, not 
of Honor, but of honors, in every country, ancient or mod¬ 
ern, which has adopted the system of popular suffrage.’ 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The next day Mrs. Campion and Cecilia were seated 
under the veranda. They were both ostensibly employed 
on two several pieces of embroidery, one intended for a 
screen, the other for a sofa-cushion. But the mind of 
neither was on her work. 

Mrs. Campion.— “ Has Mr. Chillingly said when he 
means to take leave ? ” 

Cecilia.— “Not to me. How much my dear father en¬ 
joys his conversation ! ” 

Mrs. Campion. —“ Cynicism and mockery were not so 
much the fashion among young men in your father’s day as 
I suppose they arc now, and therefor? they seem new to Mr 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


2 oS 

Travers. To me they are not new, because I saw more oi 
the old than the young when I lived in London, and cynic¬ 
ism and mockery are more natural to men who are leaving 
the world than to those who are entering it.” 

Cecilia.— “ Dear Mrs. Campion, how bitter you are, and 
how unjust! You take much too literally the jesting way 
in which Mr. Chillingly expresses himself. There can be 
no cynicism in one who goes out of his way to make others 
happy.” 

Mrs. Campion. —“You mean in the whim of making an 
ill-assorted marriage between a pretty village flirt and a sick¬ 
ly cripple, and settling a couple of peasants in a business for 
which they are wholly unfitted.” 

Cecilia.— “ Jessie Wiles is not a flirt, and I am convinced 
that she will make Will Somers a very good wife, and that 
the shop will be a great success.” 

Mrs. Campion.— “ We shall see. Still, if Mr. Chillingly’s 
talk belies his actions, he may be a good man, but he is a 
very affected one.” 

Cecilia. —“ Have I not heard you say that there are per¬ 
sons so natural that they seem affected to those who do not 
understand them ? ” 

Mrs. Campion raised her eyes to Cecilia’s face, dropped 
them again over her work, and said, in grave undertones, 

“ Take care, Cecilia.” 

“ Take care of what ? ” 

“ My dearest child, forgive me ; but I do not like the 
warmth with which you defend Mr. Chillingly.” 

“ Would not my father defend him still more warmly if 
he had heard you ? ” 

“ Men judge of men in their relations to men. I am a 
woman, and judge of men in their relations to women. I 
should tremble for the happiness of any woman who joined 
her fate with that of Kenelm Chillingly.” 

“ My dear friend, I do not understand you to-day.” 

“ Nay, I did not mean to be so solemn, my love. After all, 
it is nothing to us whom Mr. Chillingly may or may not 
marry. He is but a passing visitor, and, once gone, the 
chances are that we may not see him again for years.” 

Thus speaking, Mrs. Campion again raised her eyes from 
her work, stealing a sidelong glance at Cecilia ; and her 
mother-like heart sank within her, on noticing how sudden¬ 
ly pale the girl had become, and how her lips quivered 
Mrs. Campion had enough knowledge of life to feel aware 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


209 


that she had committed a grievous blunder. In that earliest 
stage of virgin affection when a girl is unconscious of more 
than a certain vague interest in one man which distinguishes 
him from others in her thoughts,—if she hears him unjustly 
disparaged, if some warning against him is implied, if the 
probability that he will never be more to her than a passing 
acquaintance is forcibly obtruded on her,—suddenly that 
vague interest, which might otherwise have faded away with 
many another girlish fancy, becomes arrested, consolidated ; 
the quick pang it occasions makes her involuntarily, and for 
the first time, question herself, and ask, “Do I love?” But 
when a girl of a nature so delicate as that of Cecilia Travers 
can ask herself the question, “ Do I love ?” her very modes¬ 
ty, her very shrinking from acknowledging that any power 
over her thoughts for weal or for woe can be acquired by a 
man, except through the sanction of that love which only 
becomes divine in her eyes when it is earnest and pure and 
self-devoted, makes her prematurely disposed to answer 
“ yes.” And when a girl of such a nature in her own heart 
answers “ yes ” to such a question, even if she deceive her¬ 
self at the moment, she begins to cherish the deceit till the 
belief in her love becomes a reality. She has adopted a re¬ 
ligion, false or true, and she would despise herself if she 
could be easily converted. 

Mrs. Campion had so contrived that she had forced that 
question upon Cecilia, and she feared, by the girl’s change 
of countenance, that the girl’s heart had answered “yes.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

While the conversation just narrated took place, Kenelm 
had walked forth to pay a visit to Will Somers. All obsta¬ 
cles to Will’s marriage were now cleared away ; the trans¬ 
fer of lease for the shop had been signed, and the banns 
were to be published for the first time on the following Sun* 
day. We need not say that Will was very happy. Kenelm 
then paid a visit to Mrs. Bowles, with whom he stayed an 
hour. On re-entering the Park, he saw Travers, walking 
slowly, with downcast eyes, and his hands clasped behind 
him (his habit when in thought). He did not observe Ken- 
elm’s approach till within a few feet of him, and he then 



eio 


KEN ELM CHILLINGL Y. 


greeted his guest in listless accents, unlike his usual cheer 
ful tones. 

‘‘ I have been visiting the man you have made so happy,” 
said Kenelm. 

Who can that be ? ” 

“Will Somers. Do you make so many people happy 
that your reminiscence of them is lost in their number ? ” 

Travers smiled faintly, and shook his head. 

Kenelm went on. “ I have also seen Mrs. Bowles, and 
you will be pleased to hear that Tom is satisfied with his 
change of abode ; there is no chance of his returning to 
Graveleigh ; and Mrs. Bowles took very kindly to my sug¬ 
gestion that the little property you wish for should be sold 
to you, and, in that case, she would remove to Luscombe to 
be near her son.” 

“I thank you much for your thought of me,” said Tra¬ 
vers, “ and the affair shall be seen to at once, though the 
purchase is no longer inportant to me. I ought to have 
told you three days ago, but it slipped my memory, that a 
neighboring squire, a young fellow just come into his prop¬ 
erty, has offered to exchange a capital farm, much nearer 
to my residence, for the lands I hold in Graveleigh, includ¬ 
ing Saunderson’s farm and the cottages : they are quite at 
the outskirts of my estate, but run into his, and the exchange 
will be advantageous to both. Still I am glad that the 
neighborhood should be thoroughly rid of a brute like Tom 
Bowles.” 

“You would not call him brute if you knew him ; but I 
am sorry to hear that Will Somers will be under another 
landlord.” 

“ It does not matter, since his tenure is secured for four¬ 
teen years.” 

“ What sort of man is the new landlord ? ” 

“ I don’t know much of him. He was in the army till 
his father died, and has only just made his appearance in 
the county. He has, however, already earned the charac¬ 
ter of being too fond of the other sex, and it is well that 
pretty Jessie is to be safely married.” 

Travers then relapsed into a moody silence from which 
Kenelm found it difficult to rouse him. At length the lat¬ 
ter said, kindly: 

“My dear Mr. Travers, do not think I take a liberty if J 
venture to guess that something has happened this morning 
>vhich troubles or vexes you. When that is the case, it is 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


211 


often a relief to say what it is, even to a confidant so unable 
to advise or to comfort as myself.” 

“You are a good fellow, Chillingly, and I know not, 
at least in these parts, a man to whom I would unburden 
myself more freely. I am put out, I confess ; disappointed 
unreasonably, in a cherished wish, and,” he added, with a 
slight laugh, “ it always annoys me when I don’t have my 
own way.” 

“ So it does me.” 

“Don’t you think that George Belvoir is a very fine 
young man ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“/ call him handsome ; he is steadier, too, than most 
men of his age and of his command of money ; and yet he 
does not want spirit nor knowledge of life. To every ad¬ 
vantage of rank and fortune he adds the industry and the 
ambition which attain distinction in public life.” 

“ Quite true. Is he going to withdraw from the election 
after all?” 

“ Good Heavens, no ! ” 

“Then how does he not let you have your own way?” 

“ It is not he,” said Travers, peevishly ; “ it is Cecilia. 
Don’t you understand that George is precisely the husband 
I would choose for her ? and this morning came a very well 
written manly letter from him, asking my permission to 
pay his addresses to her.” 

“ But that is your own way so far.” 

“Yes, and here comes the balk. Of course I had to re¬ 
fer it to Cecilia, and she positively declines, and has no 
reasons to give ; does not deny that George is good-looking 
and sensible, that he is a man of whose preference any 
girl might be proud; but she chooses to say she cannot 
love him, and when I ask why she cannot love him, has no 
other answer than that ‘ she cannot say.’ It is too provok¬ 
ing.” 

“ It is provoking,” answered Kenelm ; “but then Love 
is the most dunderheaded of all the passions ; it never will 
listen to reason. The very rudiments of logic are unknown 
to it. ‘ Love has no wherefore,’ says one of those Latin 
poets who wrote love-verses called elegies—a name which 
we moderns appropriate to funeral dirges. For my own 
part, I can’t understand how any one can be expected vol¬ 
untarily to make up his mind to go out of his mind. And 
if Miss Travers cannot go out of her mind because George 


212 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Belvoir does, you could not argue her into doing so if ydu 
talked till doomsday.” 

Travers smiled in spite of himself, but he answered 
gravely, “Certainly I would not wish Cissy to marry any 
man she disliked; but she does not dislike George—no girl 
could ; and where that is the case, a girl so sensible, so af¬ 
fectionate, so well brought up, is sure to love, after marriage, 
a thoroughly kind and estimable man, especially when she 
has no previous attachment—which, of course. Cissy never 
had. In fact, though I do not wish to force my daughter’s 
will, I am not yet disposed to give up my own. Do you un¬ 
derstand ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ I am the more inclined to a marriage so desirable in 
every way, because when Cissy comes out in London— 
which she has not yet done—she is sure to collect around 
her face and her presumptive inheritance all the handsome 
fortune-hunters and titled vauriens; and if in love there is 
no wherefore, how can I be sure that she may not fall in 
love with a scamp ? ” 

“ I think you may be sure of that,” said Kenelm. “ Miss 
Travers has too much mind.” 

“ Yes, at present ; but did you not say that in love peo¬ 
ple go out of their mind ?” 

“ True ! I forgot that.” 

“ I am not then disposed to dismiss poor George’s offei 
with a decided negative ; and yet it would be unfair to mis¬ 
lead him by encouragement. In fact. I’ll be hanged if I 
know how to reply.” 

“You think Miss Travers does not dislike George Bel¬ 
voir, and if she saw more of him would like him better, and 
it would be good for her as well as for him not to put amend 
to that chance ? ” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“Why not then write, ‘ My dear George,—You have my 
best wishes, but my daughter does not seem disposed to 
marry at present. Let me consider your letter not written, 
and continue on the same terms as we were before.’ Per¬ 
haps, as George knows Virgil, you might find your own 
schoolboy recollections of that poet useful here, and add, 
‘ Variufn et mutabile semper femina ; ’—hackneyed, but true.” 

“ My dear Chillingly, your suggestion is capital. How 
the deuce at your age have you contrived to know the world 
so well ? ” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


Kenelm answered in the pathetic tones so natural to his 
voice, ‘‘ By being only a looker-on ;—alas ! ” 

Leopold Travers felt much relieved after he had written 
his reply to George. He had not been quite so ingenuous 
in his revelation to Chillingly as he may have seemed. Con¬ 
scious, like all proud and fond fathers, of his daughter’s at¬ 
tractions, he was not without some apprehension that Ken¬ 
elm himself might entertain an ambition at variance with 
that of George Belvoir : if so, he deemed it well to put an 
end to such ambition while yet in time—partly because his 
interest was already pledged to George ; partly because, in 
rank and fortune, George was the better match ; partly be¬ 
cause George was of the same political party as himself— 
while Sir Peter, and probably Sir Peter’s heir,^espoused the 
opposite side ; and partly also because, with afl his personal 
liking to Kenelm, Leopold Travers, as a very sensible, prac¬ 
tical man of the world, was not sure that a baronet’s heir who 
tramped the country on foot in the dress of a petty farmer, 
and indulged pugilistic propensities in martial encounters 
with stalwart farriers, was likely to make a safe husband 
and a comfortable son-in-law. Kenelm’s words, and still 
more his manner, convinced Travers that any apprehensions 
of rivalry that he had previously conceived were utterly 
groundless. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The same evening, after dinner (during that lovely sum¬ 
mer month they dined at Neesdale Park at an unfashionably 
early hour), Kenelm, in company with Travers and Cecilia, 
ascended a gentle eminence at the back of the gardens, on 
which there were some picturesque ivy-grown ruins of an 
ancient priory, and commanding the best view of a glorious 
sunset and a subject landscape of vale and wood, rivulet and 
distant hills. 

“ Is the delight in scenery,” said Kenelm, ‘‘ really an ac¬ 
quired gift, as some philosophers tell us ? is it true that 
young children and rude savages do not feel it—that the eye 
must be educated to comprehend its charm, and that the eye 
can be only educated through the mind ?” 

“I should think your philosophers are right,” said 



2t4 


KEMELM chillingly. 


Travers. ** When I was a schoolboy, I thought no scenery 
was like the flat of a cricket-ground ; when I hunted at 
Melton, I thought that unpicturesque country more beauti¬ 
ful than Devonshire. It is only of late years that I feel a 
sensible pleasure in scenery for its own sake, apart from as¬ 
sociations of custom or the uses to which we apply them.” 

“ And what say you. Miss Travers ? ” 

“ I scarcely know what to say,” answered Cecilia, mus¬ 
ingly. “ I can remember no time in my childhood when I 
did not feel delight in that which seemed to me beautiful in 
scenery, but I suspect that I very vaguely distinguished one 
kind of beauty from another. A common field with daisies 
and buttercups was beautiful to me then, and I doubt if I 
saw anything more beautiful in extensive landscapes.” 

“True,” said Kenelm ; “it is not in early childhood that 
we carry the sight into distance ; as is the mind so is the 
eye ; in early childhood the mind revels in the present, and 
the eye rejoices most in the things nearest to it. I don’t 
think in childhood that we 

“ ‘ Watched with wistful eyes the setting sun.’ ” 

“ Ah ! what a world of thought in that word ‘ wistful! ’ ” 
murmured Cecilia, as her gaze riveted itself on the western 
heavens, towards which Kenelm had pointed as he spoke, 
where the enlarging orb rested half its disk on the rim of 
the horizon. 

She had seated herself on a fragment of the ruin, backed 
by the hollows of a broken arch. The last rays of the sun 
lingered on her young face, and then lost themselves in the 
gloom of the arch behind. There was a silence for some 
minutes, during which the sun had sunk. Rosy clouds in 
thin flakes still floated, momently waning ; and the eve-star 
stole forth steadfast, bright, and lonely—nay, lonely not 
now ; that sentinel has aroused a host. 

Said a voice, “No sign of rain yet. Squire. What will 
become of the turnips? ” 

“ Real life again ! Who can escape it ? ” muttered Ken¬ 
elm, as his eyes rested on the burly figure of the Squire’s 
bailiff. 

“Ha! North,” said Travers, “what brings you here? 
No bad news, I hope.” 

“Indeed, yes, Squire. The Durham bull-” 

“ The Durham bull ! What of him ? You frighten me.* 

“Taken bad. Colic.” 


KEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


2 IS 

“ Excuse me, Chillingly,” cried Travers ; I must be off. 
A most valuable animal, and no one I can trust to doctor 
him but myself.” 

‘‘That’s true enough,” said the bailiff, admiringly 
“There’s not a veterinary in the county like the Squire.” 

Travers was already gone, and the panting bailiff had 
hard work to catch him up. 

Kenelm seated himself beside Cecilia on the ruined 
fragment. 

“ How I envy your father ! ” said he. 

“ Why just at this moment ? Because he knows how to 
doctor the bull ? ” said Cecilia, with a sweet low laugh. 

“ Well, that is something to envy. It is a pleasure to 
relieve from pain any of God’s creatures—even a Durham 
bull.” 

“ Indeed, yes. I am justly rebuked.” 

“ On the contrary, you are to be justly praised. Your 
question suggested to me an amiable sentiment in place of 
the selfish one which was uppermost in my thoughts. I en¬ 
vied your father because he creates for himself so many ob¬ 
jects of interest; because while he can appreciate the mere 
sensuous enjoyment of a landscape and a sunset, he can find 
mental excitement in turnip crops and bulls. Happy, Miss 
Travers, is the Practical Man.” 

“When my dear father was as young as you, Mr. Chil¬ 
lingly, I am sure that he had no more interest in turnips and 
bulls than you have. I do not doubt that some day you will 
be as practical as he is in that respect.” 

“ Do you think so—sincerely ?” 

Cecilia made no answer. 

Kenelm repeated the question. 

“Sincerely, then, I do not know whether you will take 
interest in precisely the same things that interest my father; 
but there are other things than turnips and cattle which 
belong to what you call ‘ practical life,’ and in these you will 
take interest, as you took it in the fortunes of Will Somers 
and Jessie Wiles.” 

“ That was no practical interest. I got nothing by it. 
But even if that interest were practical,—I mean productive, 
as cattle and turnip crops are,—a succession of Somerses 
and Wileses is not to be hoped for. History never repeats 
itself.” 

“May I answer you, though very humbly?” 

“ Miss Travers, the wisest man that ever existed never 


ii6 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


was wise enough to know woman; but I think most mert 
ordinarily wise will agree in this, that woman is by no means 
a humble creature, and that when she says she ‘ answers 
very humbly,’ she does not mean what she says. Permit me 
to entreat you to answer very loftily.” 

Cecilia laughed and blushed. The laugh was musical; 
the blush was—what ? Let any man, seated beside a girl 
like Cecilia at starry twilight, find the right epithet for that 
blush. I pass it by epithetless. But she answered, firmly 
though sweetly : 

“Are there not things very practical, and affecting the 
happiness, not of one or two individuals, but of innumerable 
thousands, in which a man like Mr. Chillingly cannot fail to 
feel interest, long before he is my father's age ? ” 

“ Forgive me ; you do not answer—you question. I 
imitate you, and what are those things as applicable to a 
man like Mr. Chillingly?” 

Cecilia gathered herself up, as with the desire to express 
a great deal in short substance, and then said : 

“ In the expression of thought, literature ; in the conduct 
of action, politics.” 

Kenelm Chillingly stared, dumfounded. I suppose the 
greatest enthusiast for Woman’s Rights could not assert 
more reverentially than he did the cleverness of woman ; but 
among the things which the cleverness of woman did not 
achieve, he had alwasys placed “laconics.” “No woman,” 
he was wont to say, “ ever invented an axiom or a proverb.” 

“Miss Travers,” he said at last, “before we proceed 
further, vouchsafe to tell me if that very terse reply of yours 
is spontaneous and original, or whether you have not bor¬ 
rowed it from some book which I have not chanced to read.” 

Cecilia pondered honestly, and then said, “ I don’t think 
it is from any book ; but I owe so many of my thoughts to 
Mrs. Campion, and she lived so much among clever men, 
that-” 

“ I see it all, and accept your definition, no matter whence 
it came. You think I might become an author or a politi¬ 
cian. Did you ever read an essay by a living author called 
‘ Motive Power ’ ? ” 

“No.” 

“ That essay is designed to intimate that without motive 
power a man, whatever his talents or his culture, does noth¬ 
ing practical. The mainsprings of motive power are Want 
and Ambition. They are absent from my mechanism. By 



KENELM CHlLLmCLY. 


219 


the accident of birth I do not require bread and cheese ; by 
the accident of temperament and of philosophical culture I 
care nothing about praise or blame. But without want of 
bread and cheese, and with a most stolid indifference to praise 
and blame, do you honestly think that a man will do any¬ 
thing practical in literature or politics ? Ask Mrs. Campion.” 

“ I will not ask her. Is the sense of duty nothing ? ” 

“ Alas ! we interpret duty so variously. Of mere duty, 
as we commonly understand the word, I do not think I shall 
fail more than other men. But for the fair development of 
all the good that is in us, do you believe that we should 
adopt some line of conduct against which our whole heart 
rebels ? Can you say to the clerk, ‘ Be a poet ’ ?—Can you 
say to the poet, ‘ Be a clerk’ ? It is no more to the happi¬ 
ness of a man’s being to order him to take to one career when 
his whole heart is set on another, than it is to order him to 
marry one woman when it is to another woman that his 
heart will turn.” 

Cecilia here winced and looked away. Kenelm had more 
tact than most men of his age—that is, a keener perception 
of subjects to avoid ; but then Kenelm had a wretched habit 
of forgetting the person he talked to and talking to himself. 
Utterly oblivious of George Belvoir, he was talking to him¬ 
self now. Not then observing the effect his mal-a-propos 
dogma had produced on his listener, he went on : “Happi¬ 
ness is a word very lightly used. It may mean little—it may 
mean much. By the word happiness I would signify, not 
the momentary joy of a child who gets a plaything, but the 
lasting harmonv between our inclinations and our objects; 
and without that harmony we are a discord to ourselves, we 
are incompletions, we are failures. Yet there are plenty of 
advisers who say to us, ‘ It is a duty to be a discord.’ I 
deny it.” 

Here Cecilia rose, and said in a low voice, “ It is getting 
late. We must go homeward.” 

They descended the green eminence slowly, and at first 
in silence. The bats, emerging from the ivied ruins they 
left behind, flitted and skimmed before them, chasing the 
insects of the night. A moth, escaping from its pursuer, 
alighted on Cecilia’s breast, as if for refuge. 

“The bats are practical,” said Kenelm : “they are hungry, 
and their motive power to-night is strong. Their interest 
is in the insects they chase. They have no interest in the 
stars ; but the stars lure the moth.” 
fo 


2tS 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Cecilia drew her slight scarf over the moth, so that it 
might not fly off and become a prey to the bats. “ Yet,” said 
she, “ the moth is practical too.” 

“Ay, just now, since it has found an asylum from the 
danger that threatened it in its course towards the stars.” 

Cecilia felt the beating of her heart, upon which lay the 
moth concealed. Did she think that a deeper and more 
tender meaning than they outwardly expressed was couched 
in these words ? If so, she erred. They now neared the 
garden gate, and Kenelm paused as he opened it. “ See,” 
he said, “the moon has just risen over those dark firs, mak¬ 
ing the still night stiller. Is it not strange that we mortals, 
placed amid perpetual agitation and tumult and strife, as if 
our natural element, conceive a sense of holiness in the 
images antagonistic to our real life—I mean in images of 
repose ? I feel at the moment as if I suddenly were made 
better, now that heaven and earth have suddenly become 
yet more tranquil. I am now conscious of a purer and 
sweeter moral than either I or you drew from the insect you 
have sheltered. I must come to the poets to express it : 

‘ The desire of the moth for the star. 

Of the night for the morrow; 

The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow! 

Oh, that something afar ! that something afar! never to be 
reached on this earth—never, never! ” 

There was such a wail in that cry from the man’s heart 
that Cecilia could not resist the impulse of a divine compas¬ 
sion. She laid her hand on his, and looked on the dark 
mildness of his upward face with eyes that heaven meant to 
be wells of comfort to grieving man. At the light touch of 
that hand Kenelm started, looked down, and met those 
soothing eyes. 

“ I am happy to tell you that I have saved my Durham,” 
cried out Mr. Travers from the other side of the gate. 


CHAPTER XX. 

As Kenelm that night retired to his own room, he paused 
on the landing-place opposite to the portrait which Mr. 
Travers had consigned t(f that desolate exile. This daugh* 



JCENELM CHILLINGLY. 


219 


ter of a race dishonored in its extinction might well have 
been the glory of the house she had entered as a bride. The 
countenance was singularly beautiful, and of a character of 
beauty eminently patrician ; there was in its expression a 
gentleness and modesty not often found in the female por¬ 
traits of Sir Peter Lely ; and in the eyes and in the smile a 
wonderful aspect of innocent happiness. 

“What a speaking homily,” soliloquized Kenelm, address¬ 
ing the picture, “against the ambition thy fair descendant 
would awake in me, art thou, O lovely image ! For genera¬ 
tions thy beauty lived in this canvas, a thing of joy, the pride 
of the race it adorned. Owner after owner said to admiring 
guests, ‘Yes, a fine portrait, by Lely ; she was my ancestress 
—a Fletwode of Fletwode.’ Now, lest guests should remem¬ 
ber that a Fletwode married a Travers, thou art thrust out 
of sight ; not even Lely’s art can make thee of value, can 
redeem thine innocent self from disgrace. And the last of 
the Fletwodes, doubtless the most ambitious of all—the most 
bent on restoring and regilding the old lordJy name—dies a 
felon ; the infamy of one living man so large that it can blot 
out the honor of the dead.” He turned his eyes from the 
smile of the portrait, entered his own room, and, seating 
himself by the writing-table, drew blotting-book and note- 
paper towards him, took up the pen, and, instead of writingf 
fell into deep reverie. There was a slight frown on his 
brow, on which frowns were rare. He was very angry with 
himself. 

“ Kenelm,” he said, entering into his customary dialogue 
with that self, “ it becomes you forsooth, to moralize about 
the honor of races which have no affinity with you. Son of 
Sir Peter Chillingly, look at home. Are you quite sure that 
you have not said or done or looked a something that may 
bring trouble to the hearth on which you are received as 
guest ? What right had you to be moaning forth your ego¬ 
tisms, not remembering that your words fell on compassion¬ 
ate ears, and that such words, heard at moonlight by a girl 
whose heart they move to pity, may have dangers for her 
peace ? Shame on you,.Kenelm ! shame ! knowing too what 
her father’s wish is ; and knowing too that you have not the 
excuse of desiring to win that fair creature for yourself. 
What do you mean, Kenelm ! I don’t hear you ; speak out. 
Oh, ‘ that I am a vain coxcomb to fancy that she could take 
a fancy to me ’—well, perhaps I am ; I hope so earnestly ; 
and, at all events, there has been and shall be no time for 


KENELM chillingly. 


iio 

much mischief. We are olf to-morrow, Kenelm ; bestir yoUf- 
self and pack up, write your letters, and then ‘ put out the 
light—put out the light! ’ ” 

But this converser with himself did not immediately set 
to work, as agreed upon by that twofold one. He rose and 
walked restlessly to and fro the floor, stopping ever and 
anon to look at the pictures on the walls. 

Several of the worst painted of the family portraits had 
been consigned to the room tenanted by Kenelm, which, 
though both the oldest and largest bed-chamber in the house, 
was always appropriated to a bachelor male guest, partly 
because it was without dressing-room, remote, and only 
approached by the small back staircase, to the landing-place 
of which Arabella had been banished in disgrace ; and part¬ 
ly because it had the reputation of being haunted, and ladies 
are more alarmed by that superstition than men are sup¬ 
posed to be. The portraits on which Kenelm now paused 
to gaze were of various dates, from the reign of Elizabeth 
to that of George III., none of them by eminent artists, and 
none of them the effigies of ancestors who had left names in 
history—in short, such portraits as are often seen in the 
country houses of well-born squires. One family type of 
feature or expression pervaded most of these portraits— 
features clear-cut and hardy, expression open and honest. 
And though not one of those dead men had been famous, 
each of them had contributed his unostentatious share, in 
his own simple way, to the movements of his time. That wor¬ 
thy in ruff and corselet had manned his own ship at his own 
cost against the Armada ; never had been repaid by the thrif¬ 
ty Burleigh the expenses which had harassed him and dimin¬ 
ished his patrimony ; never had been even knighted. That 
gentleman with short straight hair, which overhung his 
forehead, leaning on his sword with one hand, and a book 
open in the other hand, had served as representative of his 
county town in the Long Parliament, fought under Crom- ^ 
well at Marston Moor, and resisting the Protector when he 
removed the bauble,” was one of the patriots incarcerated 
in “ Hell-hole.” He, too, ha4 diminished his patrimony, 
maintaining two troopers and two horses at his own charge, 
and “ Hell-hole ” was all he got in return. A third, with a 
sleeker expression of countenance, and a large wig, flourish¬ 
ing in the quiet times of Charles IL, had only been a justice 
of the peace, but his alert look showed that he had been a 
very active one. He had neither increased nor diminished 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


221 


his ancestral fortune. A fourth, in the costume ot William 
IIL’s reign, had somewhat added to the patrimony by be¬ 
coming a lawyer. He must have been a successful one. 
He is inscribed “Serjeant at law.” A fifth, a lieutenant in 
the army, was killed at Blenheim ; his portrait was that of 
a very young and handsome man, taken the year before his 
death. His wife’s portrait is placed in the drawing-room, 
because it was painted by Kneller. She was handsome too, 
and married again a nobleman, whose portrait, of course, 
was not in the family collection. Here there was a gap in 
chronological arrangement, the lieutenant’s heir being an 
infant ; but in the time of George 11. another Travers ap¬ 
peared as the governor of a West India colony. His son 
took part in a very different movement of the age. He is 
represented old, venerable, with white hair, and underneath 
his effigy is inscribed, “ Follower of Wesley.” His successor 
completes the collection. He is in naval uniform ; he is in 
full length, and one of his legs is a wooden one. He is 
Captain, R.N. ; and inscribed, ‘‘ Fought under Nelson at 
Trafalgar.” That portrait would have found more dignified 
place in the reception-rooms if the face had not been for¬ 
biddingly ugly, and the picture itself a villanous daub. 

“ I see,” said Kenelm, stopping short, “ why Cecilia 
Travers has been reared to talk of duty as a practical in¬ 
terest in life. These men of a former time seem to have 
lived to discharge a duty, and not to follow the progress of 
the age in the chase of a money-bag—except perhaps one, 
but then to be sure he was a lawyer. Kenelm, rouse up and 
listen to me ; whatever we are, whether active or indolent, 
is not my favorite maxim a just and a true one—viz., ‘A 
good man does good by living ’ ? But, for that, he must be 
a harmony, and not a discord. Kenelm, you lazy dog, we 
must pack up.” 

Kenelm then refilled his portmanteau, and labelled and 
directed it to Exmundham, after which he wrote these three 
notes : 

Note I. 

TO THE MARCHIONESS OF GLENALVON. 

“ My dear Friend and Monitress,— I have left your last letter a 
month unanswered. I could not reply to your congratulations on the event 
of my attaining the age of twenty-one. That event is a conventional sham, 
and you know how I abhor shams and conventions. The truth is, that I am 
either much younger than twenty-one or much older. As to all designs on 


222 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


my peace in standing for our county at the next election, I wished to defeat 
them, and I have done so; and now I have commenced a course of travel. 
1 had intended on starting to confine it to my native country. Intentions 
are mutable. I am going abroad. You shall hear of my whereabout. I 
w'lite this from the house of Leopold Travers, who, I understand from his 
fair daughter, is a connection of yours ;—a man to be highly esteemed and 
cordially liked. 

“ No, in spite of all your flattering predictions, I shall never be anything 
in this life more distinguished than what I am now. Lady Glenalvon allows 
me to sign myself her grateful friend, K. C.” 

Note 2. 

“Dear Cousin Mivers, —I am going abroad. I may want money; 
for, in order to rouse motive power within me, I mean to want money if I 
can. When I was a boy of sixteen you offered me money to write attacks 
upon veteran authors for ‘The Londoner.’ Will you give me money now 
for a similar display of that grand New Idea of our generation—viz,, that the 
less a man knows of a subject the better he understands it ? I am about to 
travel into countries which I have never seen, and among races I have never 
known. My arbitrary judgments on both will be invaluable to ‘ The Lon¬ 
doner ’ from a Special Correspondent who shares your respect for the anony¬ 
mous, and whose name is never to be divulged. Direct your answer by 
return to poste restante^ Calais.—Yours truly, K. C.” 

Note 3. 

“ My dear Father, —I found your letter here, whence I depart to¬ 
morrow. Excuse haste. I go abroad, and shall write to you from Calais. 

“ I admire Leopold Travers very much. After all, how much of self¬ 
balance there is in a true English gentleman ! Toss him up and down where 
you will, and he always alights on his feet—a gentleman. He has one child, 
a daughter named Cecilia—handsome enough to allure into wedlock any 
mortal whom Decimus Roach had not convinced that in celibacy lay the right 
‘ Approach to the Angels.’ Moreover, she is a girl whom one can talk with. 
Even you could talk with her. Travers wishes her to marry a very respect¬ 
able, good-looking, promising gentleman, in every way ‘suitable,’ as they 
say. And if she does, she will rival that pink and perfection of polished 
womanhood. Lady Glenalvon. I send you back my portmanteau. I have 
pretty well exhausted my experience-money, but have not yet encroached on 
my monthly allowance. I mean still to live upon that, eking it out, if ne¬ 
cessary, by the sweat of my brow—or brains. But if any case requiring extra 
funds should occur—a case in which that extra would do such real good to 
another that I feel you would do it—why, I must draw a check on your 
bankers. But understand that is your expense, not mine, and it is you who 
are to be repaid in heaven. Dear father, how I do love and honor you every 
day more and more ! Promise you not to propose to any young lady till I 
come first to you for consent !—oh, my dear father, how could you doubt it ? 
how doubt that I could not be happy with any wife whom you could not love 
as a daughter ? Accept that promise as sacred. But I wish you had asked 
me something in which obedience was not much too faci'e to be a test of 
duty. I could not have obeyed you more cheeerfully if you had asked me to 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


223 


promise never to propose to any young lady at all. Had you asked me to 
promise that I would renounce the dignity of reason for the frenzy of love, or 
the freedom of man for the servitude of husband, then I might have sought 
to achieve the impossible ; but I should have died in the effort ’—and thou 
wouldst have known that remorse which haunts the bed of the tyrant.—Your 
affectionate son, K. C.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

The next morning Kenelm surprised the party at breaks 
fast by appearing in the coarse habiliments in which he had 
first made his host’s acquaintance. He did not glance to¬ 
wards Cecilia when he announced his departure; but, his 
eye resting on Mrs. Campion, he smiled, perhaps a little 
sadly, at seeing her countenance brighten up and hearing 
her give a short sigh of relief. Travers tried hard to in¬ 
duce him to stay a few days longer, but Kenelm was firm. 
‘ The summer is wearing away,” said he, “ and I have far to 
go before the flowers fade and the snows fall. On the third 
»iiight from this I shall sleep on foreign soil.” 

“ You are going abroad, then ? ” asked Mrs. Campion. 

Yes.” 

“ A sudden resolution, Mr. Chillingly. The other day 
you talked of visiting the Scotch lakes.” 

“ True ; but, on reflection, they will be crowded with 
holiday tourists, many of whom I shall probably know. 
Abroad I shall be free, for I shall be unknown.” 

“ I suppose you will be back for the hunting season,” 
Raid Travers. 

“ I think not. I do not hunt foxes.” 

“ Probably vre shall at all events meet in London,” said 
Travers. “ I think, after long rustication, that a season or 
two in the bustling capital may be a salutary change for 
mind as well as for body ; and it is time that Cecilia were 
presented and her court-dress specially commemorated in 
the columns of the ‘ Morning Post.’ ” 

Cecilia was seemingly too busied behind the tea-urn to 
heed this reference to her debut. 

‘‘ I shall miss you terribly,” cried Travers, a few mo¬ 
ments afterwards, with a hearty emphasis. “ I declare that 
yrou have quite unsettled me. Your quaint sayings will be 
ringing in my ears long after you are gone.” 



824 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


There was a rustle as of a woman’s dress in sudden 
change of movement behind the tea-urn 

“Cissy,” said Mrs. Campion, “are we ever to have our 
tea?” 

“ I beg pardon,” answered a voice behind the urn. “ I 
hear Pompey” (the Skye terrier) “whining on the lawn. 
They have shut him out. I will be back presently.” 

Cecilia rose and was gone. Mrs. Campion took her 
place at the tea urn. 

“ It is quite absurd in Cissy to be so fond of that hideous 
dog,” said Travers, petulantly. 

“ Its hideousness is its beauty,” returned Mrs. Campion, 
laughing. “ Mr. Belvoir selected it for her as having the 
longest back and the shortest legs of any dog he could find 
in Scotland.” 

“Ah, George gave it to her ; T forgot that,” said Travers, 
laughing pleasantly. 

It was some minutes before Miss Travers returned with 
the Skye terrier, and she seemed to have recovered her 
spirits in regaining that ornamental accession to the party—■ 
talking very quickly and gayly, and with flushed cheeks, 
like a young person excited by her own overflow of mirth. 

But when, half an hour afterwards, Kenelm took leave 
of her and Mrs. Campion at the hall-door, the flush was 
gone, her lips were tightly compressed, and her parting 
words were not audible. Then, as his figure (side by side 
with her father, who accompanied his guest to the lodge) 
swiftly passed across the lawn and vanished amid the trees 
beyond, Mrs. Campion wound a mother-like arm around 
her waist and kissed her, Cecilia shivered and turned her 
face to her friend smiling; but such a smile,—one of those 
smiles that seem brimful of tears. 

“ Thank you, dear,” she said, meekly ; and, gliding away 
towards the flower-garden, lingered awhile by the gate 
which Kenelm had opened the night before. Then she 
went with languid steps up the green slopes towards the 
ruined priory. 


V 


BOOK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

It is somewhat more than a year and a half since 
Kenelm Chillingly left England, and the scene now is in 
London, during that earlier and more sociable season 
which precedes the Easter holidays—season in which the 
charm of intellectual companionship is not yet withered 
away in the heated atmosphere of crowded rooms—season 
in which parties are small, and conversation extends beyond 
the interchange of commonplace with one’s next neighbor 
at a dinner-table—season in which you have a fair chance 
of finding your warmest friends not absorbed by the su¬ 
perior claims of their chilliest acquaintances. 

There was what is called a conversazione at the house of 
one of those Whig noblemen who yet retain the graceful art 
of bringing agreeable people together, and collecting round 
them the true aristocracy, which combines letters and art 
and science with the hereditary rank and political distinc¬ 
tion—that art which was the happy secret of the Lans- 
downes and Hollands of the last generation. Lord Beau- 
manoir was himself a genial, well-read man, a good judge of 
art, and a pleasant talker. He had a charming wife, de¬ 
voted to him and to her children, but with enough love of 
general approbation to make herself as popular in the fash¬ 
ionable world as if she sought in its gayeties a refuge from 
the dullness of domestic life. 

Among the guests at the Beaumanoirs’ this evening were 
two men, seated apart in a small room, and conversing fa¬ 
miliarly. The one might be about fifty-four ; he was tall, 
strongly built, but not corpulent, somewhat bald, with black 
eyebrows, dark eyes, bright and keen, mobile lips, round 
which there played a shrewd and sometimes sarcastic smile. 
This gentleman, the Right Hon. Gerard Danvers, was a very 
influential Member of Parliament. He had, when young 
for English public life, attained to high office ; but—partly 

JO* 


226 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


from a great distaste to the drudgery of administration ; 
partly from a pride of temperament, which unfitted him for 
the subordination that a Cabinet owes to its chief; partly, 
also, from a not uncommon kind of epicurean philosophy, 
at once joyous and cynical, which sought the pleasures of 
life and held very cheap its honors—he had obstinately de¬ 
clined to re-enter office, and only spoke on rare occasions. 
On such occasions he carried great weight, and, by the brief 
expression of his opinions, commanded more votes than 
many an orator infinitely more eloquent. Despite his want 
of ambition, he was fond of power in his own way—power 
over the people who had power ; and in the love of political 
intrigue he found an amusement for an intellect very sub¬ 
tle and very active. At this moment he was bent on a new 
combination among the leaders of different sections in the 
same party, by which certain veterans were to retire, and 
certain younger men to be admitted into the Administration. 
It was an amiable feature in his character that he had a sym¬ 
pathy with the young, and had helped to bring into Parlia¬ 
ment, as well as into office, some of the ablest of a genera¬ 
tion later than his own. He gave them sensible counsel, 
was pleased when they succeeded, and encouraged them 
when they failed—always provided that tkey had stuff 
enough in them to redeem the failure ; if not, he gently 
dropped them from his intimacy, but maintained sufficiently 
familiar terms with them to be pretty sure that he could in¬ 
fluence their votes whenever he so desired. 

The gentleman with whom he was now conversing was 
young, about five-and-twenty—not yet in Parliament, but 
with an intense desire to obtain a seat in it, and with one of 
those reputations which a youth carries away from school 
and college, justified, not by honors purely academical, but 
by an impression of ability and power created on the minds 
of his contemporaries, and indorsed b}^ his elders. He had 
done little at the university beyond taking a fair degree— 
except acquiring at the Debating Society the fame of an ex¬ 
ceedingly ready and adroit speaker. On quitting college he 
had written one or two political articles in a quarterly re¬ 
view which created a sensation ; and though belonging to 
no profession, and having but a small yet independent in¬ 
come, society was very civil to him, as to a man who would 
some day or other attain a position in which he could dam¬ 
age his enemies and serve his friends. Something in this 
young man’s countenance and bearing tended tQ favor the 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 




credit given to his ability and his promise. In his counte¬ 
nance there was no beauty ; in his bearing no elegance. But 
in that countenance there was vigor—there was energy— 
there was audacity. A forehead wide but low, protuberant 
in those organs over the brow which indicate the qualities 
fitted for perception and judgment—qualities for every-day 
life ; eyes of the clear English blue, small, somewhat sunken, 
vigilant, sagacious, peneix ating; a long straight upper lip, 
significant of resolute purpose ; a mouth in which a student 
of physiognomy would have detected a dangerous charm. 
The smile was captivating, but it was artificial, surrounded 
by dimples, and displaying teeth white, smaU, strong, but 
divided from each other. The expression of that smile would 
have been frank and candid to all who failed to notice that 
it was not in harmony with the brooding forehead and the 
steely eye—that it seemed to stand distinct from the rest of 
the face, like a feature that had learned its part. There was 
that physical power in the back of the head which belongs to 
men who make their way in life—combative and destructive. 
All gladiators have it ; so have great debaters and great re¬ 
formers—that is, reformers who destroy, but not necessarily 
reconstruct. So, too, in the bearing of the man there was a 
hardy self-confidence, much too simple and unaffected for 
his worst enemy to call it self-conceit. It was the bearing 
of one who knew how to maintain personal dignity without 
seeming to care about it. Never servile to the great, never 
arrogant to the little ; so little over-refined that it was never 
vulgar,—aspopular bearing. 

The room in which these gentlemen were seated was 
separated from the general suite of apartments by a lobby 
off the landing-place, and served for Lady Beaumanoir’s 
boudoir. Very pretty it was, but simply furnished, with 
chintz draperies. The walls were adorned with drawings 
in water-colors, and precious specimens of china on fanciful 
Parian brackets. At one corner, by a window that looked 
southward and opened on a spacious balcony glazed in and 
filled with flowers, stood one of those high trellised screens, 
first invented, I believe, in Vienna, and along which ivy is 
so trained as to form an arbor. 

The recess thus constructed, and which was completely 
out of sight from the rest of the room, was the hostess’s 
favorite writing-nook. The two men I have described were 
seated near the screen, and had certainly no suspicion that 
an^ one gould be behind it, 


228 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


“Yes,” said Mr. Danvers, from an ottoman niched in 
another recess of the room, “ I think there will be an open¬ 
ing at Saxboro’ soon. Milroy wants a colonial government; 
and if we can reconstruct the Cabinet as I propose, he 
would get one. Saxboro’ would thus be vacant. But, my 
dear fellow, Saxboro’ is a place to be wooed through love 
and only won through money. It demands liberalism from 
a candidate—two kinds of liberalism seldom united ; the 
liberalism in opinion which is natural enough to a very poor 
man, and the liberalism in expenditure which is scarcely to 
be obtained except from a very rich one. You may compute 
the cost of Saxboro’ at ^£3000 to get in, and about ^2000 
more to defend your seat against a petition—the defeated 
candidate nearly always petitions. ;^5ooo is a large sum ; 
and the worst of it is, that the extreme opinions to which 
the member for Saxboro’ must pledge himself are a draw¬ 
back to an official career. Violent politicians are not the 
best raw material out of which to manufacture fortunate 
place-men.” 

“ The opinions do not so much matter ; the expense does. 
I cannot afford ^5000, or even ;2^3ooo.” 

“Would not Sir Peter assist ? He has, you say, only one 
son ; and if anything happen to that one son. you are the 
next heir.” 

“ My father quarrelled with Sir Peter, and harassed him 
by an imprudent and ungracious litigation. I scarcely think 
I could apply to him for money to obtain a seat in Parliament 
upon the democratic side of the question ; for, though I 
know little of his politics, I take it for granted that a country 
gentleman of old family and ^10,000 a year cannot well be 
a democrat.” 

“ Then I presume you would not be a democrat if, by the 
death of your cousin, you became heir to the Chillinglys.” 

“ I am not sure what I might be in that case. There arc 
times when a democrat of ancient lineage and good estates 
could take a very high place amongst the aristocracy.” 

“ Humph ! my dear Gordon, vous irez loin'' 

“ I hope to do so. Measuring myself against the men of 
my own day, I do not see many who should outstrip me.” 

“ What sort of a fellow is your cousin Kenelm ? I met 
him once or twice when he was very young, and reading 
with Welby in London. People then said that he was very 
clever ; he struck me as very odd.” 

“I neycr saw him ; Imt from nil I hear, whether he be 


iCENELM CmiUmLY. 


22 ^ 


clever or whether he be odd, he is not likely to do anything 
in life—a dreamer.” 

“Writes poetry, perhaps?” 

“ Capable of it, I daresay.” 

Just then some other guests came into the room, amongst 
them a lady of an appearance at once singularly distin¬ 
guished and singularly prepossessing, rather above the com¬ 
mon height, and with a certain indescribable nobility of air 
and presence. Lady Glenalvon was one of the queens of 
the London world, and no queen of that world was ever less 
worldly or more queen-like. Side by side with the lady was 
Mr. Chillingly Mivers. Gordon and Mivers interchanged 
friendly nods, and the former sauntered away and was soon 
lost amid a crowd of other young men, with whom, as he 
could converse well and lightly on things which interested 
them, he was rather a favorite, though he was not an inti¬ 
mate associate. Mr. Danvers retired into a corner of the 
adjoining lobby, where he favored the French ambassador 
with his views on the state of Europe and the reconstruction 
of Cabinets in general. 

“But,” said Lady Glenalvon to Chillingly Mivers,“ are you 
quite sure that my old young friend Kenelm is here ? Since 
you told me so, I have looked everywhere for him in vain. 
I should so much like to see him again.” 

“ I certainly caught a glimpse of him half an hour ago ; 
but before I could escape from a geologist, who was boring 
me about the Silurian system, Kenelm had vanished.” 

“Perhaps it was his ghost!” 

“ Well, we certainly live in the most credulous and super¬ 
stitious age upon record ; and so many people tell me that 
they converse with the dead under the table, that it seems 
impertinent in me to say that I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

“Tell me some of those incomprehensible stories about 
table-rapping,” said Lady Glenalvon. “ There is a charming 
snug recess here behind the screen.” 

Scarcely had she entered the recess than she drew back 
with a start and an exclamation of amaze. Seated at the 
table within the recess, his chin resting on his hand, and his 
face cast down in abstracted reverie, was a young man. So 
still was his attitude, so calmly mournful the expression of 
his face, so estranged did he seem from all the motley but 
brilliant assemblage which circled around the solitude he 
had made for himself, that he might well have been deemed 
one of those visitants from another world whose secrets the 


KS.NELM CHILUNCLV. 


sjo 

intruder had wished to learn. Of that intruder’s presence 
he was evidently unconscious. Recovering her surprise, 
she stole up to him, placed her hand on his shoulder, and 
littered his name in a low gentle voice. At that sound Ken- 
elm Chillingly looked up. 

“ Do you not remember me ? ” asked Lady Glenalvon. 
Lefore he could answer, Mivers, who had followed the 
Marchioness into the recess, interposed. 

“ My dear Kenelm, how are you ? When did you come 
to London ? Why have you not called on me ? and what on 
earth are you hiding yourself for ? ” 

Kenelm had now recovered the self-possession which he 
rarely lost long in the presence of others. He returned 
cordially his kinsman’s greeting, and kissed with his wonted 
chivalrous grace the fair hand which the lady withdrew 
from his shoulder and extended to his pressure. “ Remem¬ 
ber you ! ” he said to Lady Glenalvon, with the kindliest ex¬ 
pression of his soft dark eyes ; “ I am not so far advanced 
towards the noon of life as to forget the sunshine that bright¬ 
ened its morning. My dear Mivers, your questions are easily 
answered. I arrived in England two weeks ago, stayed at 
Exmundham till this morning, to-day dined with Lord Thet- 
ford, whose acquaintance I made abroad, and was persuaded 
by him to come here and be introduced to his father and 
mother, the Beaumanoirs. After I had undergone that cere¬ 
mony, the sight of so many strange faces frightened me into 
shyness. Entering this room at a moment when it was quite 
deserted, I resolved to turn hermit behind the screen.” 

“Why, you must have seen your cousin Gordon as you 
came into the room.” 

“ But you forget I don’t know him by sight. Flowever, 
there was no one in the room when I entered; a little later 
some others came in, for I heard a faint buzz, like that of 
persons talking in a whisper. However, I was no eaves¬ 
dropper, as a person behind a screen is on the dramatic 
stage.” 

This was true. Even had Gordon and Danvers talked 
in a louder tone, Kenelm had been too absorbed in his own 
thoughts to have heard a word of their conversation. 

“You ought to know young Gordon ; he is a very clever 
fellow, and has an ambition to enter Parliament. I hope no 
old family quarrel between his bear of a father and dear Sir 
Peter will make you object to meet him.” 

“ Sir Peter is the most forgiving of men, but he would 


kkSTELM CHiLtr^Gt?, 


Scarcely forgive me if I declined to meet a cousin who had 
never offended him.” 

“Well said. Come and meet Gordon at breakfast to¬ 
morrow-ten o’clock. I am still in the old rooms.” 

While the kinsmen thus conversed, Lady Glenalvon had 
seated herself on the couch beside Kenelm, and was quietly 
observing his countenance. Now she spoke: “My dear Mr. 
Mivers, you will have many opportunities of talking with 
Kenelm ; do not grudge me five minutes’ talk with him now. ” 

“ I leave your ladyship alone in her hermitage. How all 
the men in this assembly will envy the hermit 1 ’* 


CHAPTER II. 

“ I AM glad to see you once more in the world,” said 
Lady Glenalvon, “ and I trust that you are now prepared 
to take that part in it, which ought to be no mean one if 
you do justice to your talents and your nature.” 

Kenelm.— “ When you go to the theatre, and see one of 
the pieces which appear now to be the fashion, which would 
you rather be—an actor or a looker-on ?” 

Lady Glenalvon.— “ My dear young friend, your ques¬ 
tion saddens me.” (After a pause.)—“ But, though I used 
a stage metaphor when I expressed my hope that you would 
take no mean part in the world, the world is not really a 
theatre. Life admits of no lookers-on. Speak to me frank¬ 
ly, as you used to do. Your face retains its old melancholy 
expression. Are you not happy ? ” 

Kenelm.— “ Happy, as mortals go, I ought to be. I do 
not think I am unhappy. If my temper be melancholic, 
melancholy has a happiness of its own. Milton shows that 
there are as many charms in life to be found on the Pense- 
roso side of it as there are on the Allegro.” 

Lady Glenalvon.— “ Kenelm, you saved the life of my 
poor son, and when, later, he was taken from me, I felt as if 
he had commended you to my care. When at the age of 
sixteen, with a boy’s years and a man’s heart, you came to 
London, did I not try to be to you almost as a mother? and 
did you not often tell me that you could confide to me the 
secrets of your heart more readily than to any other ?” 

“You were to me,” said Kenelm, with emotion, “that 



fCEMELM CmLUMGLY. 


ip 

most precious and sustaining good getiius which a youth 
can find at the threshold of life—a woman gently wise, 
kindly sympathizing, shaming him by the spectacle of her 
own purity from all grosser errors, elevating him from mean 
tastes and objects by the exquisite, ineffable loftiness of soul 
which is only found in the noblest order of womanhood. 
Come, I will open my heart to you still. I fear it is more 
wayward than ever. It still feels estranged from the com- 
panionship and pursuits natural to my age and station. 
However, I have been seeking to brace and harden my 
nature, for the practical ends of life, by travel and adven¬ 
ture, chiefly among rougher varieties of mankind than we 
meet in drawing-rooms. Now, in compliance with the duty 
I owe to my dear father’s wishes, I come back to these cir¬ 
cles, which under your auspices I entered in boyhood, and 
which even then seemed to me so inane and artificial. Take 
a part in the world of these circles ; such is your wish. My 
answer is brief. I have been doing my best to acquire a 
motive power, and I have not succeeded. I see nothing that 
I care to strive for, nothing that I care to gain. The very 
times in which we live are to me as to Hamlet—out of joint; 
and I am not born like Hamlet to set them right. Ah ! if I 
could look on society through the spectacles with which the 
poor hidalgo in ‘ Gil Bias ’ looked on his meagre board— 
spectacles by which cherries appear the size of peaches, and 
tomtits as large as turkeys ! The imagi ition which is 
necessary to ambition is a great magnifier.” 

“ I have known more than one man, now very eminent, 
very active, who at your age felt the same estrangement 
from the practical pursuits of others.” 

“ And what reconciled those men to such pursuits ? ” 

“ That diminished sense of individual personality, that 
unconscious fusion of one’s ovvn being into other existen¬ 
ces, which belong to home and marriage.” 

“ I don’t object to home, but I do to marriage.” 

“ Depend on it, there is no home for man where there is 
no woman.” 

“ Prettily said. In that case I resign the home.” 

“Do you mean seriously to tell me that you never see 
the woman you could love enough to make her your wife, 
and never enter any home that you do not quit with a touch 
of envy at the happiness of married life ? ” 

“ Seriously, I never see such a woman ; seriously, I never 
enter such a home.” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Patience, then ; your time will come, and I hope it is 
at hand. Listen to me. It was only yesterday that I felt 
an indescribable longing to see you again—to know your 
address, that I might write to you ; for yesterday, when a 
certain young lady left my house, after a week’s visit, I said, 
this girl would make a perfect wife, and, above all, the exact 
wife to suit Kenelm Chillingly.” 

“ Kenelm Chillingly is very glad to hear that this young 
lady has left your house.” 

“ But she has not left London—she is here to-night. She 
only stayed with me till her father came to town, and the 
house he had taken for the season was vacant ; those events 
happened yesterday.” 

“ Fortunate events for me : they permit me to call on 
you without danger.” 

“ Have you no curiosity to know, at least, who and 
what is the young lady who appears to me so well suited to 
you ? ” 

“ No curiosity, but a vague sensation of alarm.” 

“ Well, I cannot talk pleasa'ntly with you while you are 
in this irritating mood, and it is time to quit the hermitage. 
Come, there are many persons here with some of whom you 
should renew old acquaintance, and to some of whom I 
should like to make you known.” 

“ I am prepared to follow Lady Glenalvon wherever she 
deigns to lead me—except to the altar with another.” 


CHAPTER III. 

The rooms were now full—not overcrowded, but full— 
and it was rarely even in that house that so many distin¬ 
guished persons were collected together. A young man thus 
honored by so grande a dame as Lady Glenalvon, could not 
but be cordially welcomed by all to whom she presented 
him. Ministers and Parliamentary leaders, ball-givers and 
beauties in vogue—even authors and artists ; and there was 
something in Kenelm Chillingly, in his striking countenance? 
and figure, in that calm ease of manner natural to his indif* 
ference to effect, which seemed to justify the favor shown 
to him by the brilliant princess of fashion, and mark him 
out for general observation. 



254 


l^EMELk CHlLLll^GLY. 


That lirst evening of his reintroduction to the polite world 
was a success which few young men of his years achieve 
He produced a sensation. Just as the rooms were thinning 
Lady Glenalvon whispered to Kenelm : 

“ Come this way—there is one person I must reintroduce 
you to—thank me for it hereafter.” 

Kenelm followed the Marchioness, and found himself 
face to face with Cecilia Travers. She was leaning on her 
father’s arm, looking very handsome, and her beauty was 
heightened by the blush which overspread her cheeks as 
Kenelm Chillingly approached. 

Travers gieeted him with great cordiality ; and Lady 
Glenalvon asking him to escort her to the refreshment-room, 
Kenelm had no option but to offer his arm to Cecilia. 

Kenelm felt somewhat embarrassed. “ Have you beea 
long in town. Miss Travers ? ” 

“A little more than a week, but we only settled into our 
house yesterday.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! were you tljen the young lady who-” 

He stopped short, and his face grew gentler and graver in 
its expression. 

“The young ladj who—what?” asked Cecilia, with a 
smile. 

“ Who has been staying with Lady Glenalvon ? ” 

“Yes ; did^he tell you ?” 

“ She did not mention your name, but praised that young 
lady so justly that I ought to have guessed it.” 

Cecilia made some not very audible answer, and on en^ 
tering the refreshment-room other young men gathered 
round her, and Lady Glenalvon and Kenelm remained 
silent in the midst of a general small-talk. When Travers, 
after giving his address to Kenelm, and, of course, pressing 
him to call, left the house with Cecilia, Kenelm said to Lady 
Glenalvon, musingly, “ So that is the young lady in whom 1 
was to see my fate : you knew that we had met before ? ” 

“Yes, she told me when and where. Besides, it is not 
iwo years since you wrote to me from her father’s house. 
Do you forget ? ” 

“Ah,” said Kenelm, so abstractedly that beseemed to be 
dreaming, “ no man with his eyes open rushes on his fate ; 
when he does so, his sight is gone. Love is blind. They 
say the blind are very happy, yet 1 never met a blind man 
who would not recover his sight if he could.” 



iCENELM CHILLINGLY, 




CHAPTER IV. 

Mr. Chillingly Mivers never gave a dinner at his own 
rooms. When he did give a dinner, it was at Greenwich or 
Richmond. But he gave breakfast-parties pretty often, and 
they were considered pleasant. He had handsome bachelor 
apartments in Grosvenor Street, daintily furnished, with a 
prevalent air of exquisite neatness. A good library stored 
with books of reference, and adorned with presentation 
copies from authors of the day, very beautifully bound. 
Though the room served for the study of the professed man 
of letters, it had none of the untidy litter which generally 
characterizes the study of one whose vocation it is to deal 
with books and papers. Even the implements for writing 
were not apparent, except when required. They lay con¬ 
cealed in a vast cylinder bureau, French made, and French 
polished. Within that bureau were numerous pigeon-holes 
and secret drawers, and a profound well with a separate 
patent lock. In the well were deposited the articles intended 
for publication in “ The Londoner ”—proof-sheets, etc. ; 
pigeon-holes were devoted to ordinary correspondence ; 
secret drawers to confidential notes, and outlines of biogra¬ 
phies of eminent men now living, but intended to be com¬ 
pleted for publication the day after their death. 

No man wrote such funereal compositions with a livelier 
pen than that of Chillingly Mivers ; and the large and mis¬ 
cellaneous circle of his visiting acquaintances allowed him to 
ascertain, whether by authoritative report or by personal ob¬ 
servation, the signs of mortal disease in the illustrious friends 
whose dinners he accepted, and whose failing pulses he in¬ 
stinctively felt in returning the pressure of their hands, so 
that he was often able to put the finishing-stroke to their 
obituary memorials, days, weeks, even months, before their 
fate took the public by surprise. That cylinder bureau was 
in harmony with the secrecy in which this remarkable man 
shrouded the productions of his brain. In his literary life 
Mivers had no “ I ; ” there he was ever the inscrutable, mys¬ 
terious “We.” He was only “I ” when you met him in the 
world and called him Mivers. 

Adjoining the library on one side was a small dining- of 


A'kNELM CfirLLr\*GLY. 


i36 

rather breakfast-room, hung witli valuable pictui es—pfesenti 
from living painters. Many of these painters had been 
severely handled by Mr. Mivers in his existence as “We,”— 
not always in “ The Londoner.” His most pungent criticisms 
were often contributed to other intellectual journals, con¬ 
ducted by members of the same intellectual clique. Painters 
knew not how contemptuously “We” had treated them 
when they met Mr. Mivers. His “ I ” was so complimentary 
that they sent him a tribute of their gratitude. 

On the other side was his drawing-room, also enriched 
by many gifts, chiefly from fair hands—embroidered cush¬ 
ions and table-covers, bits of Sevres or old Chelsea, elegant 
knick knacks of all kinds. Fashionable authoresses paid 
great court to Mr. Mivers; and in the course of his life as a 
single man he had other female adorers besides fashionable 
authoresses. 

Mr. Mivers had already returned from his early constitu¬ 
tional walk in the Park, and was now seated by the cylinder 
secretaire with a mild-looking man, who was one of the most 
merciless contributors to “ The Londoner,” and no unim¬ 
portant councillor in the oligarchy of the clique that went 
by the name of the “Intellectuals.” 

“ Well,” said Mivers, languidly, “ I can’t even get through 
the book ; it is as dull as the country in November. But 
as you justly say, the writer is an ‘ Intellectual,’ and a clique 
would be anything but intellectual if it did not support its 
members. Review the book yourself—mind and make the 
dullness of it the signal proof of its merit. Say—To the 
ordinary class of readers this exquisite work may appear 
less brilliant than the flippant smartness of’—any other 
author you like to name ; ‘ but to the well-educated and in¬ 
telligent every line is pregnant with,’ etc. etc. By the way, 
when we come by-and-by to review the exhibition at Bur¬ 
lington House, there is one painter whom we must try our 
best to crush. I have not seen his pictures myself, but he 
is a new man, and our friend, who has seen him, is terribly 
jealous of him, and says that if the good judges do not put 
him down at once, the villanous taste of the public will set 
him up as a prodigy. A low-lived fellow too, I hear. There 
is the name of the man and the subject of the pictures. 
See to it when the time comes. Meanwhile, prepare the 
way for onslaught on the pictures by occasional sneers at 
the painter.” Mr. Mivers here took out of his cylinder a 
confidential note from the jealous rival, and handed it to hig 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


237 


mild-looking confrlre ; then rising, he said, “ I fear we must 
suspend business till to-morrow; I expect two young cou¬ 
sins to breakfast” 

As soon as the mild-looking man was gone, Mr. Mivers 
sauntered to his drawing-room window, amiably offering a 
lump of sugar to a canary-bird sent him as a present the 
day before, and who, in the gilded cage which made part of 
the present, scanned him suspiciously, and refused the 
sugar. 

Time had remained very gentle in its dealings with Chil¬ 
lingly Mivers. He scarcely looked a day older than when 
he was first presented to the reader on the birth of his kins¬ 
man Kenelm. He was reaping tbc fruit of his own sage 
maxims. Free from whiskers and safe in wig, there was no 
sign of gray—no suspicion of dye. Superiority to passion, 
abnegation of sorrow, indulgence of amusement, avoidance 
of excess, had kept away the crow’s feet, preserved the elas¬ 
ticity of his frame and the unflushed clearness of his gentle¬ 
manlike complexion. The door opened, and a well-dressed 
valet, who had lived long enough with Mivers to grow very 
much like him, announced Mr. Chillingly Gordon. 

“ Good morning,” said Mivers ; “ I was much pleased to 
see you talking so long and so familiarly with Danvers : 
others, of course, observed it, and it added a step to your 
career. It does you great good to be seen in a drawing¬ 
room talking apart with a Somebody. But may I ask if the 
talk itself was satisfactory ? ” 

‘^Not at all: Danvers throws cold water on the notion of 
Saxboro’, and does not even hint that his party will help me 
to any other opening. Party has few openings at its dis¬ 
posal nowadays for any young man. The schoolmaster be¬ 
ing abroad has swept away the school for statesmen as he 
has swept away the school for actors—an evil, and an evil 
of a far graver consequence to the destinies of the nation 
than any good likely to be got from the system that suc¬ 
ceeded it.” 

“But it is of no use railing against things that can’t be 
helped. If I were you, I would postpone all ambition of 
Parliament, and read for the bar.” 

“ The advice is sound, but too unpalatable to be taken. 
I am resolved to find a seat in the House, and where there 
is a will there is a way.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” 

But I am-” 


238 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


‘‘Judging by what your contemporaries at the University 
tell me of your speeches at the Debating Society, you were 
not then an ultra-Radical. But it is only an ultra-Radical 
who has a chance of success at Saxboro’.” 

“ I am no fanatic in politics. There is much to be said 
on all sides —cateris paribus^ I prefer the winning side to the 
losing : nothing succeeds like success.” 

“ Ay, but in politics there is always reaction. The win¬ 
ning side one day may be the losing side another. The 
losing side represents a minority, and a minority is sure to 
comprise more intellect than a majority ; in the long-run 
intellect will force its way, get a majority, and then lose it, 
because with a majority it will become stupid.” 

“ Cousin Mivers, does not the history of the world show 
you that a single individual can upset all theories as to the 
comparative wisdom of the few or the many ? Take the 
wisest few you can find, and one man of genius not a tithe 
so wise crushes them into powder. But then that man of 
genius, though he despises the many, must make use of 
them. That done, he rules them. Don’t you see how in 
free countries political destinations resolve themselves into 
individual impersonations ? At a general election it is one 
name around which electors rally. The candidate may en¬ 
large as much as he pleases on political principles, but all his 
talk will not win him votes enough for success, unless he says, 
‘ I go with Mr. A.,’ the Minister, or with Mr. Z., the chief of 
the Opposition. It w’^as not the Tories who beat the Whigs 
when Mr. Pitt dissolved Parliament. It was Mr. Pitt who 
beat Mr. Fox, with whom in general political principles— 
slave-trade, Roman Catholic Emancipation, Parliamentary 
Reform—he certainly agreed much more than he did wfith 
any man in his own Cabinet.” 

“Take care, my young cousin,” cried Mivers, in accents 
of alarm ; “don’t set up for a man of genius. Genius is the 
worst quality a public man can have nowadays—nobody 
heeds it, and everybody is jealous of it.” 

“ Pardon me, you mistake ; my remark was purely ob¬ 
jective, and intended as a reply to your argument. I prefer 
at present to go with the many because it is the winning 
side. If we then want a man of genius to keep it the winning 
side, by subjugating its partisans to his will, he will be sure 
to come. The few will drive him to us, for the few are 
always the enemies of the one man of genius. It is they who 
distrust—it is they who r\re jealous—not the many. Ypv 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


have allowed your judgment, usually so clear, to be some¬ 
what dimmed by your experience as a critic. The critics 
are the few. They have infinitely more culture than the 
many. But when a man of real genius appears and asserts 
himself, the critics are seldom such fair judges of him as the 
many are. If he be not one of their oligarchical clique, 
they either abuse, or disparage, or affect to ignore him ;; 
though a time at last comes when, having gained the many, 
the critics acknowledge him. But the difference between 
the man of action and the author is this, that the author 
rarely finds this acknowledgment till he is dead, and it is 
necessary to the man of action to enforce it while he is alive. 
But enough of this speculation : you asked me to meet 
Kenelm—is he not coming ? ” 

“ Yes, but I did not ask him till ten o’clock. I asked you 
at half-past nine, because I wished to hear about Danvers and 
Saxboro’, and also to prepare you somewhat for your intro¬ 
duction to your cousin. I must be brief as to the last, for it 
is only five minutes to the hour, and he is a man liable to be 
punctual. Kenelm is in all ways your opposite. I don’t 
know whether he is cleverer or less clever—there is no scale 
of measurement between you ; but he is wholly void of am¬ 
bition, and might possibly assist yours. He can do what he 
likes with Sir Peter ; and considering how your poor father 
—a worthy man but cantankerous—harassed and persecuted 
Sir Peter because Kenelm came between the estate and you 
it is probable that Sir Peter bears you a grudge, though 
Kenelm declares him incapable of it ; and it would be well 
if you could annul that grudge in the father by conciliating 
the good will of the son.” 

“ I should be glad so to annul it; but what is Kenelm’s 
weak side ?—the turf? the hunting-field? women? poetry? 
One can only conciliate a man by getting on his weak side.” 

“ Hist! I see him from the windows. Kenelm’s weak side 
was, when I knew him some years ago, and I rather fancy it 
still is-” 

Well, make haste ! I hear his ring at your door-bell.” 

‘‘A passionate longing to find ideal truth in real life.” 

‘‘Ah!” said Gordon, “as I thought—a mere dreamer,” 


I 


240 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER V. 

Kenelm entered the room. The young cousins were in 
troduced, shook hands, receded a step, and gazed at each 
other. It is scarcely possible to conceive a greater contrast 
outwardly than that between the two Chillingly representa¬ 
tives of the rising generation. Each was silently impressed 
by the sense of that contrast. Each felt that the contrast 
implied antagonism, and that if they two met in the same 
arena it must be as rival combatants ; still, by some myster¬ 
ious intuition, each felt a certain respect for .the other, each 
divined in the other a power that he could not fairly estimate, 
but against which his own power would be strongly tasked 
to contend. So might exchange looks a thorough-bred deer¬ 
hound and a half-bred mastilf : the bystander could scarce¬ 
ly doubt which was the nobler animal, but he might hesitate 
which to bet on, if the two came to deadly quarrel. Mean¬ 
while the thorough-bred deer-hound and the half-bred mas¬ 
tiff sniffed at each other in polite salutation. Gordon was 
the first to give tongue. 

“ I have long wished to know you personally," said he, 
throwing into his voice and manner that delicate kind of 
deference which a well-born cadet owes to the destined head 
of his house. “ I cannot conceive how I missed you last 
night at Lady Beaumanoir’s, where Mivers tells me he met 
you ; but I left early." 

Here Mivers led the way to the breakfast-room, and, 
there seated, the.host became the principal talker, running 
with lively glibness over the principal topics of the day—the 
last scandal, the last new book, the reform of the army, the 
reform of the turf, the critical state of Spain, and the debut 
of an Italian singer. He seemed an embodied Journal, in¬ 
cluding the Leading Article, the Law Reports, Foreign 
Intelligence, the Court Circular, down to the Births, Deaths, 
and Marriages. Gordon from time to time interrupted this 
flow of soul with brief, trenchant remarks, which evinced his 
own knowledge of the subjects treated, and a habit of look¬ 
ing on all subjects connected with the pursuits and business 
of mankind from a high ground appropriated to himself, and 
through the medium of that blue glass which conveys a 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


241 


wintry aspect to summer landscapes. Kenelm said little, but 
listened attentively. 

The conversation arrested its discursive nature, to settle 
upon a political chief—the highest in fame and station ol 
that party to which Mivers professed—not to belong, he be¬ 
longed to himself alone,—but to appropinquate. Mivers 
spoke of this chief with the greatest distrust, and in a spirit 
of general depreciation. Gordon acquiesced in the distrust 
and the depreciation, adding, “ But he is master of the 
position, and must, of course, be supported through thick 
and thin for the present.” 

“ Yes, for the present,” said Mivers ; “ one has no option. 
But you will see some clever articles in ‘ The Londoner’ 
towards the close of the session, which will damage him 
greatly, by praising him in the wrong place, and deepening 
the alarm of important followers—an alarm now at work, 
though suppressed.” 

Here Kenelm asked, in humble tones, “ Why Gordon 
thought that a Minister he considered so untrustworthy and 
dangerous must, for the present, be supported through thick 
and thin.” 

“ Because at present a member elected so to support him 
would lose his seat if he did not: needs must w'hen the devil 
drives.” 

Kenelm. —“When the devil drives, I should have thought 
it better to resign one’s seat on the coach ; perhaps one might 
be of some use, out of it, in helping to put on the drag.” 

Mivers.— “ Cleverly said, Kenelm. But, metaphor apart, 
Gordon is right: a young politician must go with his party ; 
a veteran journalist like myself is more independent. So 
long as the journalist blames everybody, he will have plenty 
of readers.” 

Kenelm made no reply, and Gordon changed the conver¬ 
sation from men to measures. He spoke of some Bills be¬ 
fore Parliament with remarkable ability, evincing much 
knowledge of the subject, much critical acuteness, illustrating 
their defects, and proving the danger of their ultimate con 
sequences. 

Kenelm was greatly struck with the vigor of this cold, 
clear mind, and owned to himself that the House of Com¬ 
mons was a fitting place for its development. 

“But,” said Mivers, “would you not be obliged to de¬ 
fend these Bills if you were member for Saxboro’ ?” 

“ Before I answer your question, answer the Pan 

IX 


KEI^'ELM CHILLINGLY. 


gerous as the Bills are, it is not necessary that they sha 
pass ? Have not the public so resolved ? ” 

“There can be no doubto f that.” 

“ Then the member for Saxboro’ cannot be strong 
enough to go against the public.” 

“ Progress of the age ! ” said Kenelm, musingly. “ Dc 
you think the class of gentlemen will long last in England ? 

“ What do you call gentlemen ? The aristocracy 1 3 
birth ?—the geniilhommes ? ” 

“ Nay, I suppose no laws can take away a man’s ances¬ 
tors, and a class of well-born men is not to be exterminated. 
But a class of well-born men—without duties, responsi 
bilities, or sentiment of that which becomes good birth ii< 
devotion to country or individual honor—does no good to u 
nation. It is a misfortune which statesmen of democratic 
creed ought to recognize, that the class of the well-born 
cannot be destroyed—it must remain as it remained in 
Rome and remains in France, after all efforts to extirpate 
it, as the most dangerous class of citizens when you deprive 
it of the attributes which made it the most serviceable. I 
am not speaking of that class ; I speak of that unclassified 
order peculiar to England, which, no doubt, forming itself 
originally from the ideal standard of honor and truth sup¬ 
posed to be maintained by the gentilho?nmes, or well-born, no 
longer requires pedigrees and acres to confer upon its 
members the designation of gentlemen ; and when I hear a 
‘ gentleman ’ say that he has no option but to think one 
thing and say another, at whatever risk to his country, I 
feel as if in the progress of the age the class of gentlemer 
was about to be superseded by some finer development of 
species.” 

Therewith Kenelm rose, and would have taken his de¬ 
parture, if Gordon had not seized his hand and detained 
him. 

“ My dear cousin, if I may so call you,” he said, with the 
frank manner which was usual to him, and which suited 
well the bold expression of his face and the clear ring of 
his voice, “ I am one of those who, from an over-dislike to, 
sentimentality and cant, often make those not intimately ac¬ 
quainted with them think worse of their principles than 
they deserve. It may be quite true that a man who goes 
with his party dislikes the measures he feels bound to sup¬ 
port, and says so openly when among friends and relations^ 
yet that tP.a.n not tlicrQfotq (^eyqtd of loyalty and. honor 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


243 


and I trust, when you know me better, you will not think it 
likely I should derogate from that class of gentlemen to 
which we both belong.” 

“ Pardon me if I seemed rude,” answered Kenelm, “as¬ 
cribe it to my ignorance of the necessities of public life. It 
struck me that where a politician thought a thing evil he 
ought not to support it as good. But I daresay I am mis¬ 
taken.” 

“ Entirely mistaken,” said Mivers, “ and for this reason ; 
in politics formerly there was a direct choice between good 
and evil. That rarely exists now. Men of high education, 
having to choose whether to accept or reject a measure 
forced upon their option by constituent bodies of very low 
education, are called upon to weigh evil against evil—the 
evil of accepting or the evil of rejecting ; and if they resolve 
on the first, it is as the lesser evil of the two.” 

“Your definition is perfect,” said Gordon, “and I am 
contented to rest on it my excuse for what my cousin 
deems insincerity.” 

“I suppose that is real life,” said Kenelm, with a mourn¬ 
ful smile. 

“ Of course it is,” said Mivers. 

“Everyday I live,” sighed Kenelm, “still more confirms 
rny conviction that real life is a phantasmal sham. How 
absurd it is in philosophers to deny the existence of appari¬ 
tions ! what apparitions we, living men, must seem to the 
ghosts ! 

' “ ‘ The spirits of the wise 

Sit in the clouds and mock us.’ ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Chillingly Gordon did not fail to confirm his acquain¬ 
tance with Kenelm. He very often looked in upon him of a 
morning, sometimes joined him in his afternoon rides, intro¬ 
duced him to men of his own set, who were mostly busy 
members of Parliament, rising barristers, or political journal¬ 
ists, but not without a proportion of brilliant idlers—club 
men, sporting men, men of fas]iif)n, rank, and fortune. He 
did so with a purpose, for these persons spoke well of him, 
spokq well not only of his talents^ but of bk bonorablo 



244 


KEN ELM CHII.LINGLY, 


acter. His general nickname amongst them was “ Honest 
Gordon.” Kenelm at first thought this sobriquet must be 
ironical ; not' a bit of it. It was given to him on account 
of the candor and boldness with which he expressed opinions 
embodying that sort of cynicism which is vulgarly called “ the 
absence of humbug.” The man was certainly no hypocrite ; 
he affected no beliefs which he did not entertain. And he 
had very few beliefs in anything, except the first half of the 
adage, “Every man for himself,—and God for us all.” 

But whatever Chillingly Gordon’s theoretical disbeliefs 
in things which make the current creed of the virtuous, there 
vvas nothing in his conduct which evinced predilection for 
vicers': he was strictly upright in all his dealings, and in 
delicate matters of honor was a favorite umpire amongst 
his coevals. Though so frankly ambitious, no one could ac¬ 
cuse him of attempting to climb on the shoulders of patrons. 
There was nothing servile in his nature, and, though he was 
perfectly prepared to bribe electors if necessary, no money 
could have bought himself. His one master-passion was 
the desire of power. He sneered at patriotism as a wmrn-out 
prejudice, at philanthropy as a sentimental catch-word. He 
did not want to serve his country, but to rule it. He did not 
want to raise mankind, but to rise himself. He was there¬ 
fore unscrupulous, unprincipled, as hungerers after power 
for itself too often are ; yet still if he got power he W’^ould 
probably use it well, from tlie clearness and strength of his 
mental perceptions. The impression he made on Kenelm 
may be seen in the following letter :— 


TO .SIR PETER CHILLINGLY, BART., ETC. 

“My dear Father,— You and my dear mother will be jdeased to hear 
that London continue.s very polite to me : that ‘ arida nutrix leonum ’ enrols 
me among the pet class of lions which ladies of fashion admit into the society 
of their lap-dogs. It is somewhere about six years since I was allowed to 
gaze on this peep show through the loopholes of Mr. Welby’s retreat. It ap¬ 
pears to me, perhaps erroneously, that even within that short space of time 
the tone of ‘ society ’ is perceptibly changed. That the charge is for the 
better is an assertion I leave to those who belong to the progresista ^^ixiy. 

“ I don’t think nearly so many ycung ladies six years ago painted their 
eyelids and dyed their hair : a few of them there might be, imitators of the 
slang invented by schoolboys and circulated through the medium of small 
novelists; they might use such expressions as ‘stunning,’ ‘cheek,’ ‘awfully 
jolly,’ etc. But now I find a great many who have advanced to a slang be¬ 
yond that of verbal expressions, — a slang of mind, a slang of sentiment, a 
slang in which very little seems left of the woman, and nothing at 9,11 of the 
Udy, 


/fTENElM CHILLINGLY, 


245 


Newspaper essayists assert that the young men of the day are tc blame 
for this; that the young men like it, and the fair husband-anglers dress their 
flies in the colors most likely to attract a nibble. Whether this excuse be the 
true one I cannot pretend to judge. But it strikes me that the men about 
my own *tge who affect to be fast are a more languid race than the men from 
ten to twenty years older, whom they regard as slow. The habit of dram¬ 
drinking in the morning is a very new idea, an idea greatly in fashion at the 
moment. Adonis calls for a ‘ pick-me-up ’ before he has strength enough to 
answer a billet-doux from Venus. Adonis has not the strength to get nobly 
drunk, but his delicate constitution requires stimulants, and he is always 
tippling, 

“The men of high birth or renown for social success, belonging, my dear 
father, to your time, are still distinguished by an air of good-breeding, by a 
style of conversation more or less polished, and not without evidences of 
literary culture, from men of the same rank in my generation, who appear to 
pride themselves on respecting nobody and knowing nothing, not even gram¬ 
mar, Still we are assured that the world goes on steadily improving. That 
new idea is in full vigor. 

“Society in the concrete has become wonderfully conceited as to its own 
progressive excellences, and the individuals who form the concrete entertain 
the same complacent opinion of themselves. There are, of course, even in 
my lirief and imperfect experience, many exceptions to what appear to me 
the prevalent cliaracteristics of the rising generation in ‘society.’ Of these 
exceptions I must content myself with naming the most remarkable. Place 
aux dames ^ the first I name is Cecilia Travers. She and her father are now 
in town, and I meet them frequently. I can conceive no civilized era in the 
world which a woman like Cecilia Travers would not grace and adorn, be¬ 
cause she is essentially the type of woman as man likes to imagine woman— 
viz., on the fairest side of the womanly character. And I say ‘woman’ 
rather than girl, because among ‘ Girls of the Period’ Cecilia Travers cannot 
be classed. You might call her damsel, virgin, maiden, but you could no more 
call her girl than you could call a well-borti French demoiselle filleJ* She 
is handsome enough to please the eye of any man, however fastidious, but 
not that kind of beauty which dazzles all men too much to fascinate one man ; 
for—speaking, thank heaven, from mere tlieory—I apprehend that the love for 
woman lias in it a strong sense of property ; that one requires to individualize 
one’s possession as being wholly one’s own, and not a possession which all the 
public are invited to admire. I can readily understand how a rich man, who 
has what is callel a show place, in which the splendid rooms and the stately 
gardens are open to all inspector^, so that he has no privacy in his own 
demesnes, runs away to a pretty cottage which he has all to himself, and of 
which he can say, ‘ This is Home— this is all mine.’ 

“ But there are .some kinds of beauty which are eminently show places— 
which the public think they have as much a right to admire as the owner has ; 
and the show place itself would be dull, and perhaps fall out of repair, if the 
public could be excluded from the sight of it. 

“The beauty of Cecilia Tfavers is not that of a show place. There is a 
feeling of safety in her. If Desdemona had been like her, Othello would not 
have been jealous. But then Cecilia would not have deceived her father— 
nor I think have told a blackamoor that she wished ‘ Heaven had made her 
such a man ’ Her mind harmonizes with her person—it is a companionable 
mind. Her talents are not showy, but, take them altogether, they form a 
pleasant whole : she has good sense enough in the practical affairs of life, and 


246 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


enough of that ineffable womanly gift called tact, to counteract the effects oi 
whimsical natures like mine, and yet enough sense of the humoristic views of 
life not to take too literally all that a whimsical man like myself may say. As 
to temper, one never knows what a woman’s temper is—till one puts her out 
of it. But I imagine hers, in its normal stale, to be serene, and disposed to 
be cheerful. Now, my dear father, if )ou were i.ol one of the cleverest men 
you would infer from this eulogistic mention or Cecilia Travers that I was in 
love with her. But you no doubt will detect the truth, that a man in love 
with a woman does not weigh her merits with so steady a hand as that whicli 
guides this steel pen. I am not in love with Cecilia Travers. I wish 1 were. 
When Lady Glenalvon, who remains wonderfully kind to me, says, day after 
day, ‘Cecilia Travers would make you a perfect wife,’ I have no answer to 
give, but I don’t feel the least inclined to ask Cecilia Travers if she would 
waste her perfection on one wlio so coldly concedes it. 

“ I find that she persisted in rejecting the man whom her father wished her 
to marry, and that he has consoled himself by marrying somebody else. No 
doubt other suitors as worthy will soon ])resent themselves. 

“ Oh, dearest of all my friends—sole friend whom I regard as a confidant 
—shall I ever be in love ? and if not, why not ? Sometimes I feel as if, with 
love as with ambition, it is because I have some impossible ideal in each, that 
I must always remain indifferent to the sort of love and the sort of ambition 
which are within my reach. I have an idea that if I did love, I should love as 
intensely as Romeo, and that thought inspires me with vague forebodings of ter¬ 
ror; and if I did find an object to arouse my ambition, T could be as earnest in its 
pursuit as—whom shall I name?—Caesar or Cato ? I like Cato’s ambition the 
better of the two. But people nowadays call ambition an impracticable 
crotchet, if it be invested on the losing side. Cato would have saved Rome 
from the mob and the dictator; but Rome could not be saved, and Cato falls 
on his own sword. Had we a Cato now, the verdict at the coroner s inquest 
would be, ‘ suicide while in a state of unsound mind ; ’ and the verdict would 
have been proved by his senseless resistance to a mob and a dictator ! Talking 
of ambition, I come to the other exception to the youth of the day—I have 
named a demoiselle^ I now name a damoisemi. Imagine a man of about five- 
and-twenty, and who is morally about fifty years older than a healthy man of 
sixty,—imagine him with the brain of age and the flower of youth—with a 
heart absorbed into the brain, and giving warm blood to frigid ideas—a man 
who sneers at everything! call lofty, yet would do nothing that ke thinks mean 
—to whom vice and virtue are as indifferent as they were to the .Esthetics of 
Goethe—who would never jeopardize his career as a practical reasoner by an 
imprudent virtue, and never sully his reputatian by a degrading vice. Imagine 
this man with an intellect keen, strong, ready, unscrupulous, dauntless—all 
cleverness and no genius. Imagine this man, and then do not be astonished 
when I tell you he is a Chillingly. 

“ The Chillingly race culminates in him, and becomes Chillinglyest. In 
fact, it seems to me that we live in a day precisely suited to the Chillingly 
idiosyncrasies. During the ten centuries or more that our race has held local 
habitation and a name, it has been as airy nothings. Its representatives lived 
in hot-blooded times, and were compelled to skulk in still water with their 
emblematic Daces. But the times now, my dear father, are so cold-blooded 
that you can’t be too cold-blooded to prosper. What could Chillingly Mivers 
have been in an age when people cared twopence-halfpenny about their relig¬ 
ious creeds, and their policical parties deemed their cause was sacred and 
their leaders were heroes ? Chillingly Mivers would not nave foi^^d five subscri* 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


247 


bers to ‘ The Londoner.’ But now ‘ The Londoner ’ is the favorite organ of the 
intellectual public ; it sneers away all the foundations of the social system, 
without an attempt at reconstruction ; and every new journal set up, if it 
keeps its head above water, models itself on ‘The Londoner.’ Chillingly 
Mivers io a great man, and the most potent writer of the age, though nobody 
knows what he has written. Chillingly Gordon is a still more notable instance 
of the rise of the Chillingly worth in the modern market. 

“ There is a general impression in the most authoritative circles that Chill 
ingly Gordon will have high rank in the van of the coming men. His confi¬ 
dence in himself is so thorough that it infects all with whom he comes iiil»» 
contact—myself included. 

“ He said to me the other day, with a sang-froid worthy of the iciest 
Chillingly, ‘ I mean to be Prime Minister of England—it is only a question of 
time.’ Now, if Chillingly Gordon is to be Prime Minister, it will be becau?e 
the increasing cold of our jnoral and social atmosphere will exactly suit the 
development of his talents. 

“ He is the man above all others to argue down the declaimers of old- 
fashioned sentimentalities, love of country, care for its position among nations, 
zeal for its honor, pride in ils renown. (Oh, if you could hear him philosophi¬ 
cally and logically sneer away the word ‘ prestige * !) Such notions are fast 
being classified as ‘bosh.’ And when that classification is complete,—when 
England has no colonies to defend, no navy to pay for, no interest in the af¬ 
fairs of other nations, and has attained to the happy condition of Holland,— 
then Chillingly Gordon will be her Prime Minister. 

“Yet while, if ever I am stung into political action, it will be by abne¬ 
gation of the Chillingly attributes, and in opposition, however hopeless, to 
Chillingly Gordon, I feel that this man cannot be suppressed and ought to 
have fair play; his ambition will be infinitely more dangerous if it become 
soured by delay. I propose, my dear father, that you should have the honor 
of laying this clever kinsman under an obligation, and enabling him to enter 
Parliament. In our last conversation at Exinundham, you told me of the 
frank resentment of Gordon pere when my coming into the woild shut him 
out from the; Exmundham inheritance ; you confided to me your intention at 
that time to lay by yearly a sum that might ultimately serve as a provision for 
Gordon and as some compensation for the loss of his expectations when 
you realized your hope of an heir ; you told me also how this generous inten¬ 
tion on your part had been frustrated by a natural indignation at the elder 
Gordon’s conduct in his harassing and costly litigation, and by the addition 
you had been tempted to make to thee>tate in a purchase which added tc its 
acreage, but at a rate of interest which diminished your own income, and pre¬ 
cluded the possibility of further savings. Now, chancing to meet your lawyer, 
Mr. Vining, tiie other day, I learned from him that it had been long a wish 
which your delicacy prevented your naming to me, that I, to whom the fee- 
simple descends, should join with you in cutting off the entail and resettling 
the estate. He showed me what an advantage this would be to the property, 
because it would leave your hands free for many improvements, in which I 
heartily go with the progress of the age, for which, as merely tenant for life, 
you could not raise the money except upon ruinous terms ; new cottages for 
laborers, new buildings for tenants, the consolidation of some old mortgages 
and charges on the rent-roll, etc. And allow me to add that I should like to 
make a large increase to the jointure of my dear mother. Vining says, too, 
that there is a part of the outlying land which, as being near a town, could 
be sold to considerable profit if the estate were resettled. 


KEMELM CHILLTl^GtY. 




“Let us hasten to complete the necessary deeds, and so obtain the 
ooo required for the realization of your noble and, let me add, your just desire 
to do something for Chillingly Gordon. In the new deeds of settlement we 
could insure the power of willing the estate as we pleased ; and 1 am strongly 
against devising it to Chillingly Gordon. It may be a crotchet of mine, but 
one which I think you share, that the owner of English soil should have a 
son’s love for the native land ; and Gordon will never have that. I think, 
too, that it will be best for his own career, and for the establishment of a 
frank understanding between us and himself, that he should be fairly told that 
he would not be benefited in the event of our deaths. Twenty thousand 
pounds given to him now would be a 'greater boon to him than ten times the 
sum twenty years later. With that at his command, he can enter Parlia¬ 
ment, and have an income, added to what he now possesses, if modest, still 
sufficient to make him independent of a Minister’s patronage. 

“ Pray humor me, my dearest father, in the proposition I venture to sub¬ 
mit to you.—Your affectionate son, 

“ Kenelm.” 


FROM SIR PETER CHILLINGLY TO KENELM CHILLINGLY. 

“ My dear Boy, —You are not worthy to be a Chillingly; you are de¬ 
cidedly warm-blooded : never was a load lifted off a man’s mind with a gen¬ 
tler hand. Yes, I have wished to cut off the entail and resettle the property ; 
but, as it was eminently to my advantage to do so, I shrank from asking it, 
though eventually it would be almost as much to your own advantage. What 
with the purchase I made of the Faircleuch lands—which I could only effect 
by money borrowed at high interest on my personal security and paid of by 
yearly installments, eating largely into income—and the old mortgages, etc., 
I own I have been pinched of late years. But what rejoices me the most is 
the power to make homes for our honest laborers more comfortable, and 
nearer to their work, which last is the chief point, for the old cottagei. in 
themselves are not bad ; the misfortune is, when you build an extra room for 
the children the silly people let it out to a lodger. 

“ My dear boy, I am very much touched by your wish to increase your 
mother’s jointure—a very proper wish, independently of filial feeling, for she 
brought to the estate a very pretty fortune, which the trustees consented to 
my investing in land ; and iIiough the land completed our ring-fence, it does 
not bring in two percent , ami the conditions of the entail limited the right 
of jointure to an amount below that which a widowed Lady Chillingly may 
fairly expect. 

“ I care more about the provision on these points than I do for the inter¬ 
ests of old Chillingly Gordon’s son. I had meant to behave very handsomely 
to the father ; and when the return for behaving handsomely is being put into 
Chancery—A Worm Will Turn. Nevertheless, I agree with you that a son 
should not be punished for his father’s faults; and if the sacrifice of ;(^20,ooo 
makes you and myself feel that we are better Christians and truer gentlemen, 
we shall buy that feeling very cheaply.” 

Sir Peter then proceeded, half jestingly, half seriously, 
to combat Kenelm’s declaration that he was not in love with 
Cecilia Travers ; and, urging the advantages of marriage 
with one who Kenelm allowed would be a perfect wife, as* 


rtMELM CHILLINGLV. 


24 ^ 

tutely remarded that, unless Kenelm had a son of his own, 
it did not seem to him quite just to the next of kin to will 
the property from him, upon no better plea than the want 
of love for his native country. “ He would love his coun¬ 
try fast enough if he had ten thousand acres in it.” 

Kenelm shook his head when he came to this sentence. 

“ Is even, then, love for one’s country but cupboard-love 
after all ? ” said he ; and he postponed finishing the perusal 
of his father’s letter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Kenelm Chillingly did not exaggerate the social posi¬ 
tion he had acquired when he classed himself amongst the 
lions of the fashionable world. I dare not count the num¬ 
ber yf three-cornered notes showered upon him by the fine 
ladies who grow romantic upon any kind of celebrity ; or 
the carefully-sealed envelopes, containing letters from fair 
anonymas, who asked if he had a heart, and would be in 
such a place in the Park at such an hour. What there was 
in Kenelm Chillingly that should make him thus favored, 
especially by the fair sex, it would be difficult to say, unless 
it was the twofold reputation of being unlike other people, 
and of being unaffectedly indifferent to the gain of any 
reputation at all. He might, had he so pleased, have easily 
established a proof that the prevalent though vague belief 
in his talents was not altogether unjustified. For the arti¬ 
cles he had sent from abroad to ‘ The Londoner,’ and by 
which his travelling expenses were defrayed, had been 
stamped by that sort of originality in tone and treatment 
which rarely fails to excite curiosity as to the author, and 
meets with more general praise than perhaps it deserves. 

But Mivers was true to his contract to preserve inviola¬ 
ble the incognito of the author, and Kenelm regarded with 
profound contempt the articles themselves, and the readers 
who praised them. 

Just as misanthropy with some persons grows out of 
benevolence disappointed, so there are certain natures—and 
Kenelm Chillingly’s was perhaps one of them—in which in- 
differentism grows out of earnestness baffled. 

He had promised himself pleasure in renewing acquaim 



kEl^ELM CmLLIEtGLy. 


tance with his old tutor, Mr. Welby—pleasure in refreshing 
his own taste for metaphysics and casuistry and criticism. 
But that accomplished professor of realism had i ;tired from 
philosophy altogether, and was now enjoying a holiday for 
life in the business of a public office. A Minister in favor 
of whom, when in opposition, Mr. Welby, in a moment of 
whim, wrote some very able articles in a leading journal, 
had, on acceding to power, presented the realist with one 
of those few good things still left to Ministerial patronage 
—a place worth about ^1200 a year. His mornings thus 
engaged in routine work, Mr. We’by enjoyed his evenings 
in a convivial way. 

Inveni he said \ > Kenelm ; ' 1 plunge into no 

troubled waters now. But come and dine with me to-mor¬ 
row tete-a-tete. My wife is at St. Le: nard’s v/ith my young¬ 
est born for the benefit of sea-air. ’ Kenclnr acc^'pted the 
invitation. 

The dinner would have contented a Brillat-Savarin—it 
was faultless ; and the claret was that rare nectar, the Lafitte 
of 1848. 

“ I never share this,” said Welby, “ with more than one 
friend at a time.” 

Kenelm sought to engage his host in discussion on certain 
new works in vogue, and wliich were composed according to 
purely realistic canons of criticism. ‘^The more realistic 
these books pretend to be, the less real they are,” said Ken¬ 
elm. “ I am half inclined to think that the whole school 
you so systematically sought to build up is a mistake, and 
that realism in art is a tiling impossible.” 

“ I daresay you are right. I took up that school in earnest 
because I was in a passion with pretenders to the Idealistic 
school ; and whatever one takes up in earnest is generally a 
mistake, especially if one is in a passion. I was not in earnest 
and I was not in a passion when I wrote those articles to 
which I am indebted for my office.” Mr Welby here luxu¬ 
riously stretched his limbs, and, lifting his glass to his lips, 
voluptuously inhaled its bouquet. 

“You sadden me,” returned Kenelm. “It is a melan¬ 
choly thing to find that one’s mind was influenced in youth 
by a teacher who mocks at his own teachings.” 

Welby shrugged his shoulders. “Life consists in the 
alternate process of learning and unlearning ; but it is often 
wiser to unlearn than to learn. For the rest, as I have ceased 
to be a critic, I care little whether I was wrong or right when 


CHlLlmcLV. 


I played that pa: t. I think I am right now as a placeman. 
Let the world go its own way, provided the world lets you 
live upon it. I drain my wine to the lees, and cut down hope 
to the brief span of life. Reject realism in art if you please, 
and accept realism in conduct. For the first time in my life 
I am comfortable : my mind, having worn out its walking- 
shoes, is now enjoying the luxury of slippers. Who can 
deny the realism of comfort 

“ Has a man a right,” Kenelm said to himself, as he en¬ 
tered his brougham, “ to employ all the brilliancy of a rare 
wit—all the acquisitions of as rare a scholarship—to the 
scaring of the young generation out of the safe old roads 
which youth left to itself would take—old roads skirted by 
romantic rivers and bowery trees —directing them into new 
paths on long sandy flats, and then, when they are faint and 
footsore, to tell them that he cares not a pin whether they 
have worn out their shoes in right paths or wrong paths, for 
that he has attained the summum bonum of philosophy in the 
comfort of easy slippers ? ” 

Before he could answer the question he thus put to him¬ 
self, his brougham stopped at the door of the Minister whom 
Welby had contributed to bring into power. 

That night there was a crowded muster of the fashionable 
world at the great man’s house. It happened to be a very 
critical moment for the Minister. The fate of his Cabinet 
depended on the result of a motion about to be made the fol¬ 
lowing week in the House of Commons. The great man 
stood at the entrance of the apartments to receive his guests, 
and among the guests were the framers of the hostile motion 
and the leaders of the Opposition. His smile was not less 
gracious to them than to his dearest friends and stanchest 
supporters. 

“ I suppose this is realism,” said Kenelm to himself ; “ but 
it is not truth, and it is not comfort.” Leaning against the 
wall near the doorway, he contemplated with grave interest 
the striking countenance of his distinguished host. He de¬ 
tected beneath that courteous smile and that urbane manner 
the signs of care. The eye was absent, the cheek pinched, 
the brow furrowed. Kenelm turned away his looks, and 
glanced over the animated countenances of the idle loungers 
along commoner thoroughfares in life. Their eyes were not 
absent, their brows were not furrowed ; their minds seemed 
quite at home in exchanging nothings. Interest many of 
them had in the approaching struggle, but it was much such 


kENELM cmLZTEtGL V. 


an interest as betters of small sums may have on the Derby 
day—just enough to give piquancy to the race ; nothing to 
make gain a great joy, or loss a keen anguish. 

“Our host is looking ill,” said Mivers, accosting Kenelm. 
“I detect symptoms of suppressed gout. You know my 
aphorism, ‘nothing so gouty as ambition,’ especially Parlia¬ 
mentary ambition.” 

“ You are not one of those friends who press on my choice 
of life that source of disease ; allow me to thank you.” 

“Your thanks are misplaced. I strongly advise you to 
devote yourself to a political career.” 

“ Despite the gout ? ” 

“ Despite the gout. If you could take the world as I do, 
my advice might be different. But your mind is overcrowd¬ 
ed with doubts and fantasies and crotchets, and you have no 
choice but to give them vent in active life.” 

“You had something to do in making me what I am—an 
idler; something to answer for as to my doubts, fantasies, 
and crotchets. It was by your recommendation that I was 
placed under the tuition of Mr. Welby, and at that critical 
age in which the bent of the twig forms the shape of the 
tree.” 

“ And I pride myself on that counsel. I repeat the rea¬ 
sons for which I gave it: it is an incalculable advantage for 
a young man to start in life thoroughly initiated into the 
New Ideas which will more or less influence his generation, 
Welby was the ablest representative of these ideas. It is a 
wondrous good fortune when the propagandist of the New 
Ideas is something more than a bookish philosopher—when 
he is a thorough ‘ man of the world,’ and is what we emphat¬ 
ically call ‘ practical.’ Yes, you owe me much that I secured 
to you such tuition, and saved you from twaddle and senti¬ 
ment, the poetry of Wordsworth and the muscular Chris¬ 
tianity of cousin John.” 

“What you say that you saved me from might have done 
me more good than all you conferred on me. I suspect that 
when education succeeds in placing an old head upon young 
shoulders the combination is not healthful—it clogs the 
blood and slackens the pulse. However, I must not be un¬ 
grateful ; you meant kindly. Yes, I suppose Welby is prac* 
tical; he has no belief, and he has got a place. But our 
host, I presume, is also practical ; his place is a much higher 
one than Welby’s, and yet he surely is not without belief ?” 

“ He was born before the new ideas came into practical 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


253 


force ; but in proportion as they have done so, liis beliefs 
have necessarily disappeared. I don’t suppose that he be¬ 
lieves in much now, except the two propositions : firstly, 
that if he accept the new ideas, he will have power and keep 
it, and if he does not acce} them, power is out of the ques¬ 
tion ; and secondly, that if the new ideas are to prevail, he 
is the best man to dircc t tliem safely,—beliefs quite enough 
for a Minister. No wise Minister should have more.” 

“Does he not believe that the motion he is to resist next 
week is a bad one ? ” 

“A bad one of course, in its consequences, for if it suc¬ 
ceed it will upset him ; a good one in itself I am sure he 
must think it, for he would bring it on himself if he were in 
opposition.” 

“ I see that Pope’s definition is otill true, ‘ Party is the 
madness of the many for the gain of the few.’ ” 

“No, it is not true. Madness is a wrong word applied 
to the many ; the many are sane enough—they know their 
own objects, and they make use of the intellect of the few in 
order to gain their objects. In each party it is the many 
that control the few who nominally lead them. A man be¬ 
comes Prime Minister because he seems to the many of his 
party the fittest person to carry out their views. If he pre¬ 
sume to differ from these views, they put him into a moral 
pillory and pelt him with their dirtiest stones and their rot- 
tenest eggs.” 

“ Then the maxim should be reversed, and party is rather 
the madness of the few for the gain of the many ? ” 

“Of the two, that is the more correct definition.” 

“ Let me keep my senses and decline to be one of the 
few.” 

Kenelm moved away from his cousin’s side, and, enter- 
ing one of the less crowded rooms, saw Cecilia Travers 
seated there in a recess with Lady Glenalvon. He joined 
them, and, after a brief interchange of a few commonplaces. 
Lady Glenalvon quitted her post to accost a foreign ambas¬ 
sadress, and Kenelm sank into the chair she vacated. 

It was a relief to his eye to contemplate Cecilia’s candid 
brow ; to his ear to hearken to the soft voice that had no 
artificial tones and uttered no cynical witticisms. 

“ Don’t.vou think it strange,” said Kenelm, “ that we 
English should so mould all our habits as to make even 
what we call pleasure as little pleasurable as possible ? We 
are now in the beginning of June^ the fresh outburst of sum^ 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


mer, when every day in the country is a delight to eye and 
ear, and we say, ‘ the seaspn for hot rooms is beginning.’ 
We alone of civilized races spend our summer in a capital, 
and cling to the country when the trees are leafless and the 
brooks frozen.” 

“ Certainly that is a mistake ; but I love the country in 
all seasons, even in winter.” 

“ Provided the country house is full of London peo¬ 
ple ? ” 

“ No ; that is rather a drawback. I never want com- 
* panions in the country.” 

“True ; I should have remembered that you differ from 
» young ladies in general, and make companions of books. 
They are always more conversible in the country than they 
are in town ; or rather, we listen there to them with less dis¬ 
tracted attention. Ha ! do I not recognize yonder the fair 
whiskers of George Belvoir ? Who is the lady leaning on 
his arm ? ” 

“Don’t you know ?—Lady Emily Belvoir, his wife.” 

“ Ah ! I was told that he had married. The lady is hand¬ 
some. She will become the family diamonds. Does she 
read Blue-books?” 

“ I will ask her if you wish.” 

“Nay, it is scarcely worth while. During my rambles 
abroad, I saw but few English newspapers. I did, however, 
learn that George had won his election. Has he yet spoken 
in Parliament ? ” 

“Yes ; he moved the answer to the address this session, 
and was much complimented on the excellent tone and taste 
of his speech. He spoke again a few weeks afterwards, I 
fear not so successfully.” 

“ Coughed down ?” 

“Something like it.” 

“ Do him good ; he will recover the cough, and fulfill my 
prophecy of his success.” 

“ Have you done with poor George for the present ? If 
so, allow me to ask whether you have quite forgotten Will 
Somers and Jessie Wiles ?” 

“ Forgotten them? no.” 

“ But you have never asked after them ? ” 

“ I took it for granted that they were as happy as could 
be expected. Pray assure me that they are.” 

“ I trust so now ; but they havQ had trouble, and havQ 
l,eft Graveleigh.” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


^55 


“Trouble! left Graveleigh ! You make me uneasy. 
Pray explain.” 

“ They had not been three months married and installed 
in the home they owed to you, when poor Will was seized 
with a rheumatic fever. He was confined to his bed for 
many weeks; and when at last he could move from it, was 
so weak as to be still unable to do any work. During his 
illness Jessie had no heart and little leisure to attend to the 
shop. Of course I—that is, my dear father—gave them all 
necessary assistance ; but-” 

“ I understand ; they were reduced to objects of charity. 
Brute that I am, never to have thought of the duties I owed 
to the couple I had brought together. But pray go on.” 

“ You are aware that just before you left us my father 
received a proposal to exchange his property at Graveleigh 
for some lands more desirable to him ? ” 

“I remember. He closed with that offer?” 

“Yes ; Captain Stavers, the new landlord of Graveleigh, 
seems to be a very bad man ; and though he could not turn 
the Somerses out of the cottage so long as they paid rent— 
which we took care they did pay—yet out of a very wicked 
spite he set up a rival shop in one of his other cottages in the 
village, and it became impossible for these poor young peo¬ 
ple to get a livelihood at Graveleigh.” 

“What excuse for spite against so harmless a young 
couple could Captain Stavers find or invent ? ” 

Cecilia looked down and colored. “ It was a revengeful 
feeling against Jessie.” 

“ Ah ! I comprehend.” 

“ But they have now left the village, and are happily set¬ 
tled elsewhere. Will has recovered his health, and they are 
prospering—much more than they could ever have done at 
Graveleigh.” 

“ In that change you were their benefactress, Miss 
Travers?” said Kenelm, in a more tender voice and with 
•a softer eye than he had ever before evinced towards the 
heiress. 

“ No, it is not I whom they have to thank and bless.” 

“Who, then, is it ? Your father?” 

“ No. Do not question me ; I am bound not to say. 
They do not themselves know ; they rather believe that their 
gratitude is due to you.” ^ 

“ To me ! Am I to be forever a sham in spite of myself ? 
dear Mi§§ Trayers, it is essential to my hon.or that I 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


i ,6 

siiould undeceive this credulous pair ; where can I find 
them ? ” 

“ I must not say ; but I will ask permission of their con¬ 
cealed benefactor, and send you their address.” 

A touch was laid on Kenelm’s arm, and a voice whispered, 
May I ask you to present me to Miss Travers ?” 

“Miss Travers,” said Kenelm, “ I entreat you to add to 
the list of your acquaintances a cousin of mine—Mr. Chil¬ 
lingly Gordon.” 

While Gordon addressed to Cecilia the well-bred conven¬ 
tionalisms with which acquaintance in London drawing¬ 
rooms usually commences, Kenelm, obedient to a sign from 
Lady Glenalvon, who had just re-entered the room, quitted 
his seat, and joined the Marchioness. 

“ Is not that young man whom you left talking with 
Miss Travers your clever cousin Gordon ? ” 

“ The same.” 

“ She is listening to him with great attention. How his 
face brightens up as he talks ! He is positively handsome, 
thus animated.” 

“Yes, I could fancy him a dangerous wooer. He has wit, 
and liveliness, and audacity ; he could be very much in love 
with a great fortune, and talk to the owner of it with a fervor 
rarely exhibited by a Chillingly. Well, it is no affair of 
mine.” 

“ It ought to be.” 

“ Alas and alas ! that ‘ought to be what depths of sor¬ 
rowful meaning lie within that simple phrase ! How happy 
would be our lives, how grand our actions, how pure our 
souls, if all could be with us as it ought to be ! ” 


CHAPTER VHI. 

We often form cordial intimacies in the confined so iety 
of a country house, or a quiet watering-place, or a ^all 
Continental town, which fade away into remote acqujvint- 
anceship in the mighty vortex of London life, neither party 
being to blame for the estrangement. It was so with Leo¬ 
pold Travers and Kenelm (Jhillingly. Travers, as w'e have 
seen, had felt a powerful charm in the converse of the young 
stranger, so in contrast with the rou^me of the rural com- 



KEN EL A/ C HrL L TNGL K 


25? 


panionships to which his alert intellect had for many years 
circumscribed its range. But, on reappearing in London 
the season before Kenelm again met him, he had renewed 
old friendships with men of his own standing,—officers in 
the regiment of which he had once been a popular ornament, 
some of them still unmarried, a few of them like himself, 
widowed ; others who had been his rivals in fashion, and 
were still pleasant idlers about town ; and it rarely happens 
in a metropolis that we have intimate friendships with those 
of another generation, unless there be some common tie in 
the cultivation of art and letters, or the action of kindred 
sympathies in the party strife of politics. Therefore Travers 
and Kerielm had had little familiar communication with each 
other since they first met at the Beaumanoirs’. Now and 
then they found themselves at the same crowded assemblies,, 
and interchanged nods and salutations. But their habits 
were different. The houses at which they were intimate 
were not the same ; neither did, they frequent the same 
«^lubs. Kenelm’s chief bodily exercise was still that of long 
and early rambles into rural suburbs ; Leopold’s was that of 
a late ride in the Row. Of the two, Leopold was much more 
the man of pleasure. Once restored to metropolitan life, a 
temper constitutionally eager, ardent, and convivial, took 
kindly, as in earlier youth, to its light range of enjoyments. 

Had the intercourse between the two men been as frankly 
familiar as it had been at Neesdale Park, Kenelm would 
probably have seen much more of Cecilia at her own home ; 
and the admiration and esteem with which she already in¬ 
spired him might have ripened into much warmer feeling, 
had he thus been brought into clearer comprehension of the 
soft and womanly heart, and its tender predisposition towards 
himself. 

He had said somewhat vaguely in his letter to Sir Peter 
that “ sometimes he felt as if his indifference to love, as to 
ambition, was because he had some impossible ideal in each.” 
Taking that conjecture to task, he could not honestly per¬ 
suade himself that he had formed any ideal of woman and 
wife with which the reality of Cecilia Travers was at war. 
On the contrary, the more he thought over the character¬ 
istics of Cecilia, the more they seemed to correspond to any 
ideal that had floated before him in the twilight of dreamy 
reverie ; and yet he knew that he was not in love with her, 
that his heart did not respond to his reason, And mourn¬ 
fully he resigned himself to the conviction that nowhere in 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


258 

this planet, from the normal pursuits of whose inhabitants 
he felt so estranged, was there waiting for him the smiling 
playmate, the earnest helpmate. As this conviction strength¬ 
ened, so an increased weariness of the artificial life of the 
metropolis, and of all its objects and amusements, turned 
his thoughts with an intense yearning towards the Bohemian 
freedom and fresh excitements of his foot rambiings. He 
often thought with envy of the wandering minstrel, and 
wondered whether, if he again traversed the same range of 
country, he might encounter again that vagrant singer 


CHAPTER IX. 

It is nearly a week since Kenelm had met Cecilia, and he 
is sitting in his rooms with Lord Thetford at that hour of 
three in the afternoon, which is found the most difficult to 
dispose of by idlers about town. Amongst young men of his 
own age and class with whom Kenelm assorted in the fashion¬ 
able world, perhaps the one whom he liked the best, and of 
whom he saw the most, was this young heir of the Beau- 
manoirs ; and though Lord Thetford has nothing to do with 
the direct stream of my story, it is worth pausing a few 
minutes to sketch an outline of one of the best whom the last 
generation has produced for a part that, owing to accidents 
of birth and fortune, young men like Lord Thetford must 
play on that stage from which the curtain is not yet drawn 
up. Destined to be the head of a family that unites with 
princely possessions and an historical name a keen though 
honorable ambition for political power. Lord Thetford has 
been carefully educated, especially in the new ideas of his 
time. His father, though a man of no ordinary talents, has 
never taken a prominent part in public life. He desires his 
eldest son to do so. The Beaumanoirs have been Whigs from 
the time of William HI. They have shared the good and 
the ill fortunes of a party which, whether we side with it or 
not, no politician who dreads extremes in the government of 
a State so pre-eminently artificial that a prevalent extreme at 
either end of the balance would be fatal to equilibrium, can 
desire to become extinct or feeble so long as a constitutional 
monarchy exists in England. From the reign of George L 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


259 


to the death of George IV,, the Beaumanoirs were in th^ 
ascendant. Visit their family portrait gallery, and you must 
admire the eminence of a house which, during that interval 
of less than a century, contributed so many men to the ser¬ 
vice of the State or the adornment of the Court—so many 
Ministers, Ambassadors, Generals, Lord Chamberlains, and 
Masters of the Horse. When the younger Pitt beat the great 
Whig Houses, the Beaumanoirs vanish into comparative 
obscurity ; they re-emerge with the accession of William IV., 
and once more produce bulwarks of the State and ornaments 
of the Crown. The present Lord of poco curante 

in politics though he be, has at least held high offices at 
Court ; and, as a matter of course, he is Lord Lieutenant of 
his county, as well as Knight of the Garter. He is a man 
whom the chiefs of his party have been accustomed to con¬ 
sult on critical questions. He gives his opinions confidentially 
and modestly, and when they are rejected never takes offence. 
He thinks that a time is coming when the head of the Beau¬ 
manoirs should descend into the lists and fight hand-to-hand 
with any Hodge or Hobson in the cause of his country for 
the bepefit of the Whigs. Too lazy or too old to do this 
himself, he says to his son, “ You must do it. Without effort 
of mine the thing may last my life : it needs effort of yours 
that the thing may last through your own.” 

Lord Thetford cheerfully responds to the paternal ad¬ 
monition. He curbs his natural inclinations, which are 
neither inelegant nor unmanly ; for, on the one side, he is 
very fond of music and painting, an accomplished amateur, 
and deemed a sound connoisseur in both ; and, on the other 
side, he has a passion for all field sports, and especially for 
hunting. He allows no such attractions to interfere with 
diligent attention to the business of the House of Commons. 
He serves in Committees, he takes the chair at public meet¬ 
ings on sanitary questions or projects for social improve¬ 
ment, and acquits himself well therein. He has not yet 
spoken in debate, but he has been only two years in Parlia¬ 
ment, and he takes his father’s wise advice not to speak till 
the third. But he is not without weight among the well¬ 
born youth of‘the party, and has in him the stuff out of 
which, when it becomes seasoned, the Corinthian capitals 
of a Cabinet may be very effectively carved. In his own 
heart he is convinced that his party are going too far and 
too fast; but with that party he goes on light-heartedly. 
HuC would continue to do so if they went to Erebus. But 


26 o 


KENELM CIIILLINGL K 


he would prefer their going the other way. For the rest, a 
pleasant bright-eyed young fellow, with vivid animal spir¬ 
its ; and, in the holiday moments of reprieve from public 
duty, he brings sunshine into draggling hunting-fields, and 
a fresh breeze into heated ball-rooms. 

“ My dear fellow,” said Lord Thetford, as he threw aside 
his cigar, “ I quite understand that you bore yourself—you 
have nothing else to do.” 

What can I do ? ” 

“ Work.” 

“Work!” 

“Yes, you are clever enough to feel that you have a 
mind ; and mind is a restless inmate of body—it craves oc¬ 
cupation of some sort, and regular occupation too ; it needs 
its daily constitutional exercise. Do you give your mind 
that ? ” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, but my mind is always busying 
itself about something or other.” 

“ In a desultory way—with no fixed object.” 

“ True.” 

“Write a book, and then it will have its constitutional.” 

“ Nay, my mind is always writing a book (though it may 
not publish one), always jotting down impressions, or in¬ 
venting incidents, or investigating characters ; and between 
you and me, I do not think that I do bore myself so much 
as I did formerly. Other people bore me more than they 
did.” 

“ Because you will not create an'object in common with 
other people : come into Parliament, side with a party, and 
you have that object.” 

“ Do you mean seriously to tell me that you are not 
bored in the House of Commons ?” 

“ With the speakers very often, yes ; but with the strife 
between the speakers, no. The House of Commons life has 
a peculiar excitement scarcely understood out of it ; but 
you may conceive its charm when you observe that a man 
who has once been in the thick of it feels forlorn and 
shelved if he lose his seat, and even repines when the acci¬ 
dent of birth transfers him to the serener air of the Upper 
House. Try that life, Chillingly.” 

“ I might if I were an ultra-Radical, a Republican, a 
Communist, a Socialist, and wished to upset everything ex¬ 
isting, for then the strife would at least be a very earnest 

if 


KENELM CHILUNOLY, 


261 


“ But Could not you be equally in earnest against those 
revolutionary gentlemen,? ” 

“ Are you and your leaders in earnest against them ? 
They don’t appear to me so.” 

Thetford was silent for a minute. “ Well, if you doubt 
the principles of my side, go with the other side. For my 
part, I and many of our party would be glad to see the 
Conservatives stronger.” 

“ I have no doubt they would. No sensible man likes 
to be carried off his legs by the rush of the crowd behind 
him ; and a crowd is less headlong when it sees a strong 
force arrayed against it in front. But it seems to me that, 
at present. Conservatism can but be what it now is—a party 
that may combine for resistance, and will not combine for 
inventive construction. We are living in an age in which 
the process of unsettlernent is going blindly at work, as if 
impelled by a Nemesis as blind as itself. New ideas come 
beating in surf and surge against those which former rea- 
soners had considered as fixed banks and breakwaters ; and 
the new ideas are so mutable, so fickle, that those which 
were considered novel ten years ago are deemed obsolete 
to-day, and the new ones of to-day will in their turn be ob¬ 
solete to-morrow. And, in a sort of fatalism, you see states¬ 
men yielding way to these successive mockeries of experi¬ 
ment—for they are experiments against experience—and 
saying to each other with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘ Bis- 
millah, it must be so ; the country will have it, even though 
it sends the country to the dogs.’ I don’t feel sure that the 
country will not go there the sooner, if you can only 
strengthen the Conservative element enough to set it up in 
office, with the certainty of knocking it down again. Alas ! 
I am too dispassionate a looker-on to be fit for a partisan ; 
would I were not. Address yourself to my cousin Gor^ 
don.” 

“Ay, Chillingly Gordon is a coming man, and has all 
the earnestness you find absent in party and in yourself. ’ 

“ You call him earnest ? 

“Thoroughly, in the pursuit of one object—the advance¬ 
ment of Chillingly Gordon. If he gets into the House of 
Commons, and succeed there, I hope he will never become 
my leader ; for if he thought Christianity in the way of his 
promotion, he would bring in a bill for its abolition.” 

“ In that case would he still be your leader ? ” 

“ My dear Kenelm, you don’t know what is the spirit of 


252 


iCENELM cmUJKGLY. 


party, and how easily it makes excuses for any act of its 
leader. Of course, if Gordon brought in a bill for the aboli¬ 
tion of Christianity, it would be on the plea that the aboli« 
tion was good for the Christians, and his followers would 
cheer that enliglitened sentiment.” 

“ Ah,” said Kenelm, with a sigh, “ I own myself the dull¬ 
est of blockheads; for instead of tempting me into the field 
of party politics, your talk leaves me in stolid amaze that 
you do not take to your heels, where honor can only be 
saved by flight.” 

“ Pooh ! my dear Chillingly, we cannot run away from 
the age in which we live—we must accept its conditions and 
make the best of them ; and if the House of Commons be 
nothing else, it is a famous debating society and a capital 
club. Think over it. I must leave you now. I am going 
to see a picture at the Exhibition which has been most trucu¬ 
lently criticised in ‘ The Londoner,’ but which I am assured, 
on good authority, is a work of remarkable merit. I can’t 
bear to see a man snarled and sneered down, no doubt by 
jealous rivals, who have their influence in journals, so I shall 
judge of the picture for myself. If it be really as good as I 
am told, I shall talk about it to everybody I meet—and in 
matters of art I fancy my word goes for something. Study 
art, my dear Kenelm. No gentleman’s education is com¬ 
plete if he don’t know a good picture from a bad one. 
After the Exhibition I shall just have time for a canter 
round the Park before the debate of the session, which be¬ 
gins to-night.” 

With a light step the young man quitted the room, hum¬ 
ming an air from the “ Figaro ” as he descended the stairs. 
From the window Kenelm watched him swinging himself 
with careless grace into his saddle and riding briskly down 
the street—in form and face and bearing, a very model of 
young, high-born, high-bred manhood. “ The Venetians,” 
muttered Kenelm, “decapitated Marino Faliero for conspir- 
ing against his own order—the nobles. The Venetians 
loved their institutions, and had faith in them. Is there 
such love and such faith among the English ? ” 

As he thus soliloquized, he heard a shrilling sort of 
squeak ; and a showman stationed before his window the 
stage on which Punch satirizes the laws and moralities of 
the world, “ kills the beadle and defies the devil.” 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


263 


CHAPTER X. 

Kenelm turned from the sight of Punch and Punch’s 
friend the cur, as his servant, entering, said, “A person 
from the country, who would not give his name, asked to 
see him.” 

Thinking it might be some message from his father, 
Kenelm ordered the stranger to be admitted, and in another 
minute there entered a young man of handsome counte¬ 
nance and powerful frame, in whom, after a surprised stare, 
Kenelm recognized Tom Bowles. Difficult indeed would 
have been that recognition to an unobservant beholder: 
no trace was left of the sullen bully or the village farrier ; 
the expression of the face was mild and intelligent—more 
bashful than hardy ; the brute strength of the form had lost 
its former clumsiness, the simple dress was that of a gentle¬ 
man—to use an expressive idiom, the whole man was won¬ 
derfully “ toned down.” 

“ I am afraid, sir, I am taking a liberty,” said Tom, 
rather nervously, twiddling his hat between his fingers. 

“ L should be a greater friend to liberty than I am if it 
were always taken in the same way,” said Kenelm, with a 
touch of his saturnine humor; but then, yielding at once to 
the warmer impulse of his nature, he grasped his old antago¬ 
nist’s hand and exclaimed, “ My dear Tom, you are so wel¬ 
come. I am so glad to see you. Sit down, man—sit down ; 
make yourself at home.” 

“ I did not know you were back in England, sir, till with¬ 
in the last few days ; for you did say that when you came 
back I should see or hear from you,” and there was a tone of 
reproach in the last words. 

“ I am to blame : forgive me,” said Kenelm, remorsefully. 
“ But how did you find me out ? you did not then, I think, 
even know my name. That, however, it was easy enough 
to discover ; but who gave you my address in this lodging ? ” 

“ Well, sir, it was Miss Travers ; and she bade me come 
to you. Otherwise, as you did not send for me, it was. 
scarcely my place to call uninvited.” 

“But, my dear Tom, I never dreamed that you were in 
London One don’t ask a man whom one supposes to be 


264 


rCENELM CmLLWGLY. 


more than a hundred miles off to pay one an afternoon call 
You are still with your uncle, 1 presume ? And I need not 
ask if all thrives well with you — you look a prosperous man, 
every inch of you, from crown to toe.” 

“ Yes,” said Tom ; “ thank you kindly, sir, I am doing 
well in the way of business, and my uncle is to give me up 
^.he whole concern at Christmas.” 

While Tom thus spoke, Kenelm had summoned his ser¬ 
vant, and ordered up such refreshments as could be found 
in the larder of a bachelor in lodgings. “And what brings 
you to town, Tom.” 

“Miss Traverswrote to me about a little business which 
she was good enough to manage for me, and said you 
wished to know about it ; and so, after turning it over in 
my mind for a few days, I resolved to come to town : 
indeed,” added Tom, heartily, “ I did wish to see your face 
again.” 

“ But you talk riddles. What business of yours could 
Miss Travers imagine I wished to know about ? ” 

Tom colored high, and looked very embarrassed. 
Luckily, the servant here entering with the refreshment- 
tray allowed him time to recover himself. Kenelm helped 
him to a liberal slice of cold pigeon-pie, pressed wine on 
him, and did not renew the subject till he thought his 
guest’s tongue was likely to be more freely set loose ; then 
he said, laying a friendly hand on Tom’s shoulder, “I have 
been thinking over what passed between me and Miss 
Travers. I wished to have the new address of Will Somers ; 
she promised to write to his benefactor to ask permission to 
give it. You are that benefactor ?” 

“ Don’t say benefactor, sir, I will tell you how it came 
about, if you will let me. You see, I sold my little place 
at Graveleigh to the new Squire, and when mother removed 
to Luscombe to be near me, she told me how poor Jessie 
had been annoyed by Captain Stavers, who seems to think 
his purchase included the young woman on the property 
along with the standing timber; and I was half afraid that 
she had given some cause for his persecution, for you know 
she has a blink of those soft eyes of hers that might charm 
a wise man out of his skin, and put a fool there instead.” 

“ But I hope she has done with those blinks since hei 
marriage.” 

“ Well, and I honestly think she has. It is certain she 
did not encourage Captain Stavers, for I went over to 


kemelm chillingly. 


203 


Graveleigh myself on the sly, and lodged concealed with 
one of the cottagers w^ho owed me a kindness ; and one day, 
as I was at watch, I saw the Captain peering over the stile 
which divides Holmwood from the glebe—you remember 
Holmwood ? ” 

“ I can’t say I do.” 

“ The footway from the village to Squire Travers’s goes 
through the wood which is a few hundred yards at the back 
of Will Somers’s orchard. Presently the Captain drew him¬ 
self suddenly back from the stile, and disappeared among 
the trees, and then I saw Jessie coming from the orchard 
with a basket over her arm, and walking quick towards the 
wood. Then, sir, my heart sank. I felt sure she was going 
to meet the Captain. However, I crept along the hedge¬ 
row, hiding myself, and got into the wood almost as soon as 
Jessie got there, by another way. Under the cover of the 
brushwood I stole on till I saw the Captain come out from 
the copse on the other side of the path and plant himself 
just before Jessie. Then I saw at once I had wronged her. 
She had not expected to see him, for she hastily turned 
back, and began to run homeward ; but he caught her up, 
and seized her by the arm. I could not hear what he said, 
but I heard her voice quite sharp with fright and anger. 
And then he suddenly seized her round the waist, and she 
screamed, and I sprang forward-” 

“ And thrashed the Captain ?” 

“ No, I did not,” said Tom ; I had made a vow to myself 
that I never would be violent again if I could help it. So I 
took him with one hand by the cuff of the neck, and with 
the other by the waistband, and just pitched him on a 
bramble-bush—quite mildly. He soon picked himself up, 
for he is a dapper little chap, and became very blustering 
and abusive. But I kept my temper, and said, civilly, 

‘ Little gentleman, hard words break no bones ; but if ever 
you molest Mrs. Somers again, I will carry you into her or¬ 
chard, souse you into the duck-pond there, and call all the 
villagers to see you scramble out of it again ; and I will do 
it now if you are not off. I daresay you have heard of my 
name—I am Tom Bowles.’ Upon that, his face, which was 
before very red, grew very white, and muttering something 
I did not hear, he walked away. 

“Jessie—I mean Mrs. Somers—seemed at first as much 
frightened at me as she had been at the Captain ; and 
ihough I offered to walk with her to Miss Travers’s, where 
12 



266 


KENELM cmiLmcLY. 


she was going with a basket which the young lady had 
ordered, she refused, and went back home. I felt hurt, and 
returned to my uncle’s the same evening ; and it was not 
for months that I heard the Captain had been spiteful 
enough to set up an opposition shop, and that poor Will 
had been taken ill, and his wife was confined about the 
same time, and the talk was that they were in distress, and 
might have to be sold up. 

“ When I heard all this, I thought that after all it was 
my rough tongue that had so angered the Captain and been 
the cause of his spite, and so it was my duty to make it up 
to poor Will and his wife. I did not know how to set 
about mending matters, but I thought I’d go and talk to 
Miss Travers ; and if ever there was a kind heart in a girl’s 
breast hers is one.” 

“You are right there, I guess. What did Miss Travers say? ” 

“Nay ; I hardly know what she did say, but she set me 
thinking, and it struck me that Jessie—Mrs. Somers—haa 
better move to a distance, and out of the Captain’s reach, 
and that Will would do better in a less out-of-the way 
place. And then, by good luck, I read in the newspaper 
that a stationery and fancy-work business, with a circulating 
library, was to be sold on moderate terms at Moleswich, the 
other side of London. So I took the train and went to the 
place, and thought the shop would just suit these young 
folks, and not be too much work for either ; then I went to 
Miss Travers, and I had a lot of money lying by me from 
the sale of the old forge and premises, which I did not know 
what to do with ; and so, to cut short a long story, I bought 
the business, and Will and his wife are settled at Moleswich, 
thriving and-happy, I hope, sir.” 

Tom’s voice quivered at the last words, and he turned 
aside quickly, passing his hands over his eyes. 

Kenelm was greatly moved. 

“ And they don’t know what you did for them ? ” 

“ To be sure not. I don’t think Will would have let him¬ 
self be beholden to me. Ah ! the lad has a spirit of his own, 
and Jessie—Mrs. Somers—would have felt pained and hum¬ 
bled that I should even think of such a thing. Miss Travers 
managed it all. They take the money as a loan which is to 
be paid by installments. They have sent Miss Travers more 
than one installment already, so I know they are doing 
well.” 

“ A loan from Miss Travers ? ” 


KEN ELM CHTLLINGLV. 


267 


“No ; Miss Travers wanted to have a share in it, but I 
begged her not. It made me happy to do wliat I did all my¬ 
self ; and Miss Travers felt for me and did not press. They 
perliaps think it is Squire Travers (though he is not a man 
who would like to say it, for fear it should bring applicants 
on him), or some other gentleman who takes an interest in 
them.” 

“ I always said you were a grand fellow, Tom. But you 
are grander still than I thought you.” 

“ If there be any good in me, I owe it to you, sir. Think 
what a drunken, violent brute I was when I first met you. 
Those walks with you, and I may say that other gentleman’s 
talk, and then that long kind letter I had from you, not signed 
in your name, and written from abroad—all these changed 
me, as the child is changed at nurse.” 

“ You have evidently read a good deal since we parted.” 

“ Yes ; I belong to our young men’s library and institute ; 
and when of an evening I get hold of a book, especially a 
pleasant story-book, I don’t care for other company.” 

“ Have you never seen any other girl you could care for 
and wish to marry ?” 

“Ah, sir,” answered Tom, “a man does not go so mad 
for a girl as I did for Jessie Wiles, and when it is all over, 
and he has come to his senses, put his heart into joint again 
as easily as if it were only a broken leg. I don’t say that I 
may not live to love and to marry another woman—it is my 
wish to do so. But I know that I shall love Jessie to my 
dying day ; but not sinfully, sir—not sinfully. I would not 
wrong her by a thought.” 

There was a long pause. 

At last Kenelm said, “You promised to be kind to that 
little girl with the flower-ball; what has become of her ? ” 

“ She is quite well, thank you, sir. My aunt has taken a 
great fancy to her, and so has my mother. She comes to 
them very often of an evening, and brings her work with 
her. A quick, intelligent little thing, and full of pretty 
thoughts. On Sundays, if the weather is fine, we stroll out 
together in the fields.” 

“ She has been a comfort to you, Tom.” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ And loves you ? ” 

“ I am sure she does ; an affectionate, grateful child. 

“ She will be a woman soon, Tom, and may love you a*? 
a woman then.” 


268 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Tom looked indignant and rather scornful at that sug» 
gestion, and hastened to revert to the subject more imme* 
dia.tely at his heart. 

“ Miss Travers said you would like to call on Will Somers 
and his wife ; will you "i Moleswich is not far from London, 
you know.” 

“Certainly I will call.” 

“ I do hope you will find them happy ; and if so, per¬ 
haps you will kindly let me know ; and—and—I wonder 
whether Jessie’s child is like her ? It is a boy—somehow 
or other I would rather it had been a girl.” 

“ I will write you full particulars. But why not come 
with me ? ” 

“No, I don’t think I could do that, just at present. It 
unsettled me sadly when I did again see her sweet face at 
Graveleigh, and she was still afraid of me too!—that was a 
sharp pang.” 

“ She ought to know what you have done for her, and 
will.” 

“ On no account, sir ; promise me that. I should feel 
mean if I humbled them—that way.” 

“ I understand ; though I will not as yet make you any 
positive promise. Meanwhile, if you are staying in town, 
lodge with me ; my landlady can find you a room.” 

“Thank you heartily, sir ; but I go back by the evening 
train ; and, bless me ! how late it is now ! I must v/ish you 
good-bye. I have some commissions to do for my aunt, and 
I must buy a new doU for Susey.” 

“ Susey is the name of the littlegirl with the flower-ball ? ” 

“Yes. I must run off now ; I feel quite light at heart 
seeing you again and finding that you receive me still as 
kindly, as if we were eqtials.” 

“Ah, Tom, I wish I was your equal—nay, half as noble 
as heaven has made you ! ” 

Tom laughed incredulously, and went his way. 

“ This mischievous passion of love,” saidKenelm to him¬ 
self, “ has its good side, it seems, after all. If it was nearly 
making a wild beast of that brave fellow—nay, worse than 
wild beast, a homicide doomed to the gibbet—so, on the other 
hand, what a refined, delicate, chivalrous nature of gentle¬ 
man it has developed out of the stormy elements of its first 
madness ! Yes, I will go and look at this new-married couple. 
I daresay they are already snarling and spitting at each other 
like cat and dog. Moleswich is within reach of a walk,” 


BOOK V, 


CHAPTER I. 

Two days after the interview recorded in the last chapte( 
of the previous Book, Travers, chancing to call at Kenelm’i^ 
lodgings, was told by his servant that Mr. Chillingly had 
left London, alone, and had given no orders as to forward¬ 
ing letters. The servant did not know where he had gone, 
or when he would return. 

Travers repeated this news incidentally to Cecilia, and 
she felt somewhat hurt that he had not written her a line 
respecting Tom’s visit. She, however, guessed that he had 
gone to see the Somerses, and would return to town in a 
day or so. But weeks passed, the season drew to its close, 
and of Kenelm Chillingly she saw or heard nothing : he 
had wholly vanished from the London world. He had but 
written a line to his servant, ordering him to repair to Ex- 
mundham and await him there, and inclosing him a cheque 
to pay outstanding bills. 

We must now follow the devious steps of the strange be¬ 
ing who has grown into the hero of this story. He had left 
his apartment at daybreak long before his servant was up. 
with his knapsack, and a small portmanteau, into which he 
had thrust—besides such additional articles of dress as he 
thought he might possibly require, and which his knapsack 
could not contain—a few of his favorite books. Driving 
with these in a hack-cab to the Vauxhall station, he directed 
the portmanteau to be forwarded to Moleswich, and, fling¬ 
ing the knapsack on his shoulders, walked slowly along the 
drowsy suburbs that stretched far into the landscape, be¬ 
fore, breathing more freely, he found some evidences of 
rural culture on either side of the high-road. It was not, 
however, till he had left the roofs and trees of pleasant 
Richmond far behind him that he began to feel he was out 
of reach of the metropolitan disquieting influences. Finding 
ttt a little inn. where he stopped to breakfast, that there was 


KEN ELM CniLLlNGLY. 


27 (? 

a path along fields, and in sight of the river, through which 
he could gain the place of his destination, he then quitted 
the high-road, and, traversing one of the loveliest districts 
in one of our loveliest counties, he reached Moleswich 
about noon. 


CHAPTER II. 

On entering the main street of the pretty town, the 
name of Somers, in gilt capitals, was sufficiently conspicu¬ 
ous over the door of a very imposing shop. It boasted two 
plate-glass windows, atone of which were tastefully exhibited 
various articles of fine stationery, embroidery patterns, etc. ; 
at the other, no less tastefully, sundry specimens of orna¬ 
mental basket-work. 

Kenelm crossed the threshold and recognized behind the 
counter—fair as ever, but with an expression of face more 
staid, and a figure more rounded and matron-like—^his old 
friend Jessie. There were two or three customers before 
her, between whom she was dividing her attention. While 
a handsome young lady, seated, was saying, in a somewhat 
loud, but cheery and pleasant voice, “ Do not mind me, Mrs. 
Somers—I can wait,” Jessie’s quick eye darted towards the 
stranger, but too rapidly to distinguish his features, which, 
indeed, he turned away, and began to examine the baskets. 

In a minute or so the other customers were served and 
had departed. And the voice of the lady was again heard 
—“Now, Mrs. Somers, I want to see your picture-books and 
toys. I am giving a little children’s party this afternoon, 
and I want to make them as happy as possible.” 

“Somewhere or other on this planet, or before my Mo¬ 
nad was whisked away to it, I have heard that voice,” mut¬ 
tered Kenelm. While Jessie was alertly bringing forth her 
toys and picture-books, she said, “ I am sorry to keep you 
waiting, sir ; but if it is the baskets you come about, I can 
call my husband.” 

“ Do,” said Kenelm. 

“William—William,” cried Mrs. Somers; and after a 
delay long enough to allow him to slip on his jacket, William 
Somers emerged from the back parlor. 

His face had lost Us old trace of suffering and ill health' 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


2rj\ 


it was still somewhat pale, and retained its expression of 
intellectual refinement. 

“ How you have improved in your art! ” said Kenelm, 
heartily. 

William started, and recognized Kenelm at once. He 
sprang forward and took Kenelm’s outstretched hand in both 
his own, and, in a voice between laughing and crying, ex¬ 
claimed, “Jessie, Jessie, it is he!—he whom we pray for 
every night. God bless you 1—God bless and make you 
as happy as He permitted you to make me.” 

Before this little speech was faltered out, Jessie was by 
her husband’s side, and she added in a lower voice, but 
tremulous with deep feeling, “And me too 1 ” 

“ By your leave, Will,” said Kenelm, and he saluted Jes¬ 
sie’s white forehead with a kiss that could not have been 
kindlier or colder if it had been her grandfather’s. 

Meanwhile the lady had risen noiselessly and unobserved, 
and, stealing up to Kenelm, looked him full in the face. 

“You have another friend here, sir, W'ho has also some 
cause to thank you-” 

“ I thought I remembered your voice,” said Kenelm, 
looking puzzled. “ But pardon me if I cannot recall your 
features. Where have we met before ? ” 

“ Give me your arm when we go out, and I will bring 
myself to your recollection. But no : I must not hurry 
you away now. I will call again dn half an hour. Mrs. 
Somers, meanwhile put up the things I have selected. I 
will take them away with me when I come back from the 
vicarage, where I have left the pony-carriage.” So, with a 
parting nod and smile to Kenelm, she turned away, and 
left him bewildered. 

“ But who is that lady. Will ?” 

“A Mrs. Braefield. She is a new-comer.” 

“She may well be that. Will,” said Jessie, smiling, “for 
she has onlv been married six months.” 

“And what w^as her name before she married?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, sir. It is only three months 
since we came here, and she has been very kind to us, and an 
excellent customer. Everybody likes her. Mr. Braefield is 
a city gentleman, and very rich ; and they live in the finest 
house in the place, and see a great deal of company.” 

“ Well, I am no wiser than I was before,” said Kenelm. 
“ People who ask questions very seldom are.” 

And how did you find us out, sir ? ” stiid Jessie. “ Oh' 



B72 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


I guess,” she added, with an arch glance and smile. “ Of 
course, you have seen Miss Travers, and she told you.” 

“You are right. I first harned your change of residence 
from her, and thought I would c^me and see you, and be 
introduced to the br.by—a l-oy, I understand ? Like you, 
Will?” 

“ No, sir—the picture of Jessie.” 

“ Nonsense, Will ; it is you all ever, even to its little 
hands.” 

“ And your good mother. Will, how did you leave her ? ” 

“ Oh, sir ! ’’ cried Jessie, reproachfully ; do you think we 
could have the heart to leave mother—so lone and rheumatic 
too ? She is tending baby now—always does while I am in 
the shop.” 

Here Kenelm foil ;wed the young couple into the parlor, 
where, seated by the window, they found old Mrs. Somers 
reading the Bible and rocking the baby, who slept peace¬ 
fully in its cradle. 

“Will,” said Kenelm, bending his dark face over the infant, 
I will tell you a pretty thought of a foreign poet’s, which 
has been thus badly translated : 

“ ‘ Bles' babe, a boundless world this bed so nan'ow seems to thee ; 

Grow man, and narrower than this bed the boundless world shall be.’*’ * 

“ I don’t think that is true, sir,” said Will, simply ; “for 
a happy home is a world wide enough for any man.” 

Tears started into Jessie’s eyes ; she bent down and kissed 
—not the baby—but the cradle. “Will made it.” She 
added, blushing, “I mean the cradle, sir.” 

Time flew past while Kenelm talked with Will and the old 
mother, for Jessie was soon summoned back to the shop ; and 
Kenelm was startled when he found the half-hour’s grace 
allowed to him was over, and Jessie put her head in at the 
door and said, “ Mrs. Braefield is waiting for you.” 

“ Good-bye, Will ; I shall come and see you again soon ; 
and my mother gives me a commission to buy I don’t know 
how many specimens of your craft.” 

* SchUlcr. 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


m 


CHAPTER III. 

A SMART pony-phaeton, with a box for a driver in livery 
squally smart, stood at the shop-door. 

“Now, Mr. Chillingly,” said Mrs. Braefield, “ it is my 
turn :.o run away with you ; get in I ” 

“Eh!” murmured Kenelm, gazing at' her with large 
dreamy eyes. “ Is it possible ?” 

“Quite possible ; get in. Coachman, home I Yes, Mr. 
Chillingly, you meet again that giddy creature wh^m you 
threatened to thrash ; it would have served her right. I 
ought to feel so ashamed to recall myself to yourrecollectiv^n, 
and yet I am not a bit ashamed. I am proud to show you 
that I have turned out a steady, respectable woman, and, iny 
husband tells me, a good wife.” 

“You have only been six months married, I hear,” said 
Kenelm, dryly. “ I hope your h.isband will say the same six 
years hence.” 

-“H? will say the same sixty years hence, if we live as 
long.” 

“ How old is he now ?” 

“ Thirty-eight.” 

“ When a man wants only two years of his hundredth, he 
probably has learned to know his own mind ; but then, in 
most cases, very little mind is left to him to know.” 

“ Don’t be satirical, sir ; and don't talk as if you were rail¬ 
ing at marriage, when you have just left as happy a young 
couple as the sun ever shone upon, and owing—for Mrs. 
Somers has told me all about her marriage—owing their 
happiness to you.” 

“ Their happiness to me 1 not in the least. I helped them 
to marry, and, in spite of marriage, they helped each other 
to be happy.” 

“ You are still unmarried yourself ? " 

“ Yes, thank Heaven ! ” 

“ And are you happy ? ” 

“No ; I can’t make myself happy—myself is a discontem 
ted brute.” 

“ Then why do you say thank ‘ Heaven’ ? ” 

13* 


274 


ki:n!:l:: crn.rJNCL v. 


“ Because it is a comfort to think I am not making some 
body else unhappy.” 

“ Do you believe that if you loved a wife who loved you, 
you should make her unhappy ? ” 

“ I am sure I don’t know ; but I have not seen a woman 
whom I could love as a wife. And we need not push our 
inquiries further. What has become of that ill-treated gray 
cob.^” 

“ He was quite well, thank you, when I last heard of him.’' 

“And the uncle who would have ii 'dcted me upon you, 
if yon had not so gallantly defended yourself ? ” 

‘He is living where he did live, and has married his 
housekeeper. He felt a delicate scruple against taking that 
s .ep till I was married myself, and out o*f the way.” 

Here Mrs. Braefield, beginning to speak very hurriedly, 
as women who seek to disguise emotion often do, informed 
Kenclm how unhappy she had felt for weeks after having 
for ad an asylum with her aunt—how she had been stung by re¬ 
morse c*nd oppressed by a sense of humiliation at the thought 
of her felly and the odious recollection of Mr. Compton—how 
.he had declared to herself that she would never marry any 
one now—never! How Mr. Braefield happened to be on a 
visit in the neighborhood, and saw her at church—how.he 
had sought an introduction to her—and how at first she 
rather disliked him than not; but he was so good and so kind, 
and when at last he proposed—and she had frankly told him 
all :.bout her girlish flight and infatuation—how generously 
he had thanked her for a candor which had placed her as 
high in his esteem as she had been before in his love. “And 
from that moment,” said Mrs. Braefield, passionately, “my 
whole heart leapt to him. And now you know all. And 
here we are at the Lodge.” 

The pony-phaeton went with great speed up a broad 
gravel drive, bordered with rare evergreens, and stopped at 
a handsome house with a portico in front, and a long con¬ 
servatory at the garden side—one of those houses which 
belong to “ city gentlemen,” and often contain more comfort 
and exhibit more luxury than many a stately manorial man¬ 
sion. 

Mrs. Braefield evidently felt some pride as she led Ken- 
elm through the handsome hall, paved with Malvern tiles 
and adorned with Scagliola columns, and into a drawing¬ 
room furnished with much taste, and opening on a spacious 
flower-garden. 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


27.^ 


“ But where is Mr. Braefield ? ” said Kenelm. 

“ Oh, he has taken the rail to his office ; but he will be 
back long before dinner, and of course you dine with us.” 

“You are very hospitable, but-” 

“No buts ; I will take no excuse. Don’t fear that you 
shall have only mutton-chops and a rice-pudding ; and, 
besides, I have a children’s party coming at two o’clock, and 
there will be all sorts of fun. You are fond of children, I 
am sure ?” 

“ I rather think I am not. But I have never clearly as¬ 
certained my own inclinations upon that subject.” 

“ Well, you shall have ample opportunity to do so to-day. 
And oh ! I promise you the sight of the loveliest face that 
you can picture to yourself when you think of your future 
wife.” 

“My future wife, I hope, is not yet born,” said Kenelm, 
wearily, and with much effort suppressing a yawn. “ But, 
at all events, I will stay till after two o’clock ; for two 
o’clock, I presume, means luncheon.” 

Mrs. Braefield laughed.—“ You retain your appetite ?” 

“ Most single men do, provided they don’t fall in love 
and become doubled up.” 

At this abominable attempt at a pun, Mrs. Braefield dis¬ 
dained to laugh ; but, turning away from its perpetrator, 
she took off her hat and gloves and passed her hands light¬ 
ly over her forehead, as if to smooth back some vagrant 
tress in locks already sufficiently sheen and trim. She was 
not quite so pretty in female attire as she had appeared in 
boy’s dress, nor did she look quite as young. In all other 
respects she was wonderfully improved. There was a se- 
rener, a more settled intelligence in her frank bright eyes, a 
milder expression in the play of her parted lips. Kenelm 
gazed at her with pleased admiration. And as now, turning 
from the glass, she encountered his look, a deeper color came 
into the clear delicacy of her cheeks, and the frank eyes 
moistened. She came up to him as he sat, and took his 
hand in both hers, pressing it warmly. “ Ah, Mr. Chilling¬ 
ly,” she said, with impulsive tremulous tones, “ look round, 
look round this happy peaceful home !—the life so free 
from a care, the husband whom I so love and honor ; all 
the blessings that I might have so recklessly lost forever 
had I not met with you, had I been punished as I deserved. 
How often I thought of your words, that ‘you would be 
proud of my friendship when we met again ’! What 



2^6 


ICEIVELM CHILLINGLY. 


strength they gave me in my hours of humbled self re- 
proach ! ” Her voice here died away as if in the effort to 
suppress a sob. 

She released his hand, and, before he could answer, 
passed quickly through the open sash into the garden. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The children have come,—some thirty of them, pretty 
as English children generally are, happy in the joy of the 
summer sunshine, and the flower lawns, and the feast under 
cover of an awning suspended between chestnut-trees, and 
carpeted with sward. 

No doubt Kenelm held his own at the banquet, and 
did his best to increase the general gayety, for whenever he 
spoke the children listened eagerly, and when he had done 
they laughed mirthfully. 

“The fair face I promised you,” whispered Mrs. Brae- 
field, “ is not here yet. I have a little note from the young 
lady to say that Mrs. Cameron does not feel very well this 
morning, but hopes to recover sufficiently to come later in 
the afternoon. 

“And pray who is Mrs. Cameron ? ” 

“ Ah ! I forgot that you are a stranger to the place. 
Mrs. Cameron is the aunt with whom Lily resides. Is it 
not a pretty name, Lily ? ” 

“ Very ! emblematic of a spinster that does not spin, 
with a white head and a thin stalk.” 

“ Then the name belies my Lily, as you will see.” 

The children now finished their feast, and betooK 
themselves to dancing in an alley smoothed for a croquet- 
ground, and to the sound of a violin played by the old 
grandfather of one of the party. While Mrs. Braefield was 
busying herself with forming the dance, Kenelm seized the 
occasion to escape from a young nymph of the age of 
twelve who had sat next him at the banquet, and taken so 
great a fancy to him that he began to fear she would vow 
never to forsake his side, and stole away undetected. 

There are times when the mirth of others only saddens 
us, especially the mirth of children with high spirits, that 
jar on our own quiet mood. Gliding through a dense 



KENELiM CHILLING IY. 




shrubbery, in which, though the lilacs were faded, the labur¬ 
num still retained here and there the waning gold of its 
clusters, Kenelm came into a recess which bounded his 
steps and invited him to repose. It was a circle, so formed 
artificially by slight trellises, to which clung parasite roses 
heavy with leaves and flowers. In the midst played a tiny 
fountain with a silvery murmuring sound ; at the back¬ 
ground, dominating the place, rose the crests of stately 
trees on which the sunlight shimmered, but which rampired 
out all horizon beyond. Even as in life do the great dom¬ 
inant passions—love, ambition, desire of power, or gold, or 
fame, or knowledge—form the proud background to the 
brief-lHed flowerets of our youth, lift our eyes beyond the 
smile of their bloom, catch the glint of a loftier sunbeam, 
and yet, and yet, exclude our sight from the lengths and 
the widths of the space which extends behind and beyond 
them. 

Kenelm threw himself on the turf beside the fountain. 
From afar came the whoop and the laugh of the children in 
their sports or their dance. At the distance their joy did 
not sadden him—he marvelled why ; and thus, in musing 
reverie, thought to explain the why to himself. 

“ The poet,” so ran his lazy thinking, “ has told us that 
distance lends enchantment to the view,’and thus com¬ 
pares to the charm of distance the illusion of hope. But 
the poet narrows the scope of his own illustration. Dis¬ 
tance lends enchantment to the ear as well as to the sight; 
nor to these bodily senses alone. Memory no less than 
hope owes its charm to ‘ the far away.’ 

“ I cannot imagine myself again a child when I am in 
the midst of yon noisy children. But as their noise reaches 
me here, subdued and mellowed, and knowing, thank 
Heaven ! that the urchins are not within reach of me, I 
c#uld readily dream myself back into childhood, and into 
sympathy with the lost playfields of school. 

“ So surely it must be with grief ; how different the ter¬ 
rible agony for a beloved one just gone from earth, to the 
soft regret for one who disappeared into heaven years ago! 
So with the art of poetry : how imperatively, when it deals 
with the great emotions of tragedy, it must remove the 
actors from us, in proportion as the emotions are to elevate, 
and the tragedy is to please us by the tears it draws ! Im¬ 
agine our shock if a poet were to place on the stage some 
wise gentleman with whom we dined yesterday, and who 


KE^^ELM CHILLINGLY. 


278 

was discovered to have killed his father and married hif 
mother. But when CEdipus commits those unhappy mis¬ 
takes nobody is shocked. Oxford in the rineteenth century 
is a long way off from Thebes three thousand or four thou¬ 
sand years ago. 

‘‘And,” continued Kenelm, plunging dcv-per into the 
maze of metaphysical criticism, “evenwhere tfe poet deals 
with persons and things close upon our daily s’ght—if he 
would give them poetic charm he must resort to a sort of 
moral or psychological distance ; the nearer they are to us 
in external circumstance, the farther they must be in some 
internal peculiarities. Werter and Clarissa Hariowe are 
described as contemporaries of their artistic creation, and 
with the minutest details of an apparent realism ; yet they 
are at once removed from our daily lives by their idiosyn¬ 
crasies and their fates. We know that while Werter and 
Clarissa are so near to us in much that we sympathize with 
them as friends and kinsfolk, they are yet as much remote 
from us in the poetic and idealized side of their natures as 
if they belonged to the age of Homer ; and this it is that 
invests with charm the very pain which their fate inflicts 
on us. Thus, I suppose, it must be in love. If the love we 
feel is to have the glamour of poetry, it must be love for 
some one morally at a distance from our ordinary habitual 
selves ; in short, differing from us in attributes which, how¬ 
ever near we draw to the possessor, we can never approach, 
never blend, in attributes of our own ; so that there is some¬ 
thing in the loved one that always remains an ideal—a mys¬ 
tery—‘ a sun-bright summit mingling with the sky ! ’ ” 

Herewith the soliloquist’s musings slided vaguely into 
mere reverie. He closed his eyes drowsily, not asleep nor 
yet quite awake : as sometimes, in bright summer days, when 
we recline on the grass we do close our eyes, and yet dimly 
recognize a golden light bathing the drowsy lids ; and 
athwart that light images come and go Uke dreams, though 
we know that we are not dreaming 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


279 


CHAPTER V. 

From this state, half comatose, half unconscious, Kenelm 
was roused slowly, reluctantly. Something struck softly on 
his cheek—again a little less softly ; he opened his eyes—• 
they fell first upon two tiny rosebuds, which, on striking his 
face, had fallen on his breast ; and then, looking up, he saw 
before him, in an opening of the trellised circle, a female 
child’s laughing f^ce. Her hand was still uplifted charged 
with another rosebud, but behind the child’s figure, looking 
over her shoulder and holding back the menacing arm, was 
a face as innocent but lovelier far—the face of a girl in her 
first youth, framed round with the blossoms that festooned 
the trellis. How the face became the flowers! It seemed 
the fairy spirit of them. 

Kenelm started and rose to his feet. The child, the one 
whom he had so ungallantly escaped from, ran towards him 
through a wicket in the circle. Her companion disap¬ 
peared. 

“ Is it you ? ” said Kenelm to the child—“ you who 
pelted me so cruelly? Ungrateful creature! Did I not 
give you the best strawberries in the dish and all my own 
cream ? ” 

“ But why did you run away and hide yourself when you 
ought to be dancing with me ? ” replied the young lady, 
evading, with the instinct of her sex, all answer to the re¬ 
proach she had deserved. 

“ I did not run away, and it is clear that I did not mean 
to hide myself, since you so easily found me out. But how 
was the young lady with you ? I suspect she pelted me too, 
for she seems to have run away to hide herself.” 

‘‘ No, she did not pelt you ; she wanted to stop me, and 
you would have had another rosebud—oh, so much bigger! 
-—if she had not held back my arm. Don’t you know her— 
don’t you know Lily ? ” 

“ No ; so that is Lily ? You shall introduce me to her.” 

By this time they had passed out of the circle through 
the little wicket opposite the path by which Kenelm had 
entered, and opening at once on the lawn. Here at some 
distance the children were grouped, some reclined on the 
grass, some walking to and fro, in the interval of the dance 


28o 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


In the space between the group and the trellis, Lily was 
walking alone and quickly. The child left Kenelm’s side 
and ran after her friend, soon overtook, but did not succeed 
in arresting her steps. Lily did not pause till she had 
reached the grassy ballroom, and here all the children came 
round her and shut out her delicate form from Kenelm’s 
sight. 

Before he had reached the place, Mrs. Braefield met 
him. 

“ Lily is come ! ” 

“ I know it—I have seen her.” 

“ Is not she beautiful ? ” 

“I must see more of her if I am to*answer critically; 
but before you introduce me, may I be permitted to ask 
who ana what is Lily ? ” 

Mrs. Braefield paused a moment before she answered, 
and yet the answer was brief enough not to need much con¬ 
sideration. “ She is a Miss Mordaunt, an orphan ; and, as I 
before told you, resides with her aunt, Mrs. Cameron, a 
widow. They have the prettiest cottage you ever saw, on 
the banks of the river, or rather rivulet, about a mile from 
this place. Mrs. Cameron is a very good, simple-hearted 
Woman. As to Lily, I can praise her beauty only with safe 
conscience, for as yet she is a mere child—her mind quite 
unformed.” 

“ Did you ever meet any man, much less any woman, 
whose mind was formed ? ” muttered Kenelm. “ I am sure 
mine is not, and never will be on this earth.” 

Mrs. Braefield did not hear this low-voiced observation. 
She was looking about for Lily ; and, perceiving her at last 
as the children who surrounded her were dispersing to re¬ 
new the dance, she took Kenelm’s arm, led him to the young 
lady, and a formal introduction took place. 

Formal as it could be on those sunlit swards, arnidst the 
joy of summer and the laugh of children. In such scene and 
such circumstance, formality does not last long. I know 
not how it was, but in a very few minutes Kenelm and Lily 
had ceased to be strangers to each other. They found 
themselves seated apart from the rest of the merry-makers, 
on a bank shadowed by lime-trees ; the man listening with 
downcast eyes, the girl with mobile shifting glances now on 
earth now on heaven, and talking freely, gayly—like the 
babble of a happy stream, with a silvery dulcet voice, and a 
sparKle of rippling smiles. 


i^ENELM CHI LUNG L Y. 


No doubt this is a reversal of the formalities of well-bred 
life, and conventional narrating thereof. According to 
them, no doubt, it is for the man to talk and the maid to 
listen ; but I state the facts as they were, honestly. And 
Lily knew no more of the formalities of drawing-room life 
than a skylark fresh from its nest knows of the song-teacher 
and the cage. She was still so much of a child. Mrs. 
Braefield was right—her mind was still so unformed. 

What she did.talk about in that first talk between them 
that could make the meditative Kenelm listen so mutely, so 
intently, I know not, at least I could not jot it down on pa¬ 
per. I fear it was very egotistical, as the talk of children 
generally is—about herself and her aunt, and her home and 
her friends—all her friends seemed children like herself, 
though younger—Clemmy the chief of them. Clemmy was 
the one who had taken a fancy to Kenelm. And amidst all 
this ingenuous prattle there came flashes of a quick intellect, 
a lively fancy—nay, even a poetry of expression or of senti¬ 
ment. It might be the talk of a child, but certainly not of 
a silly child. 

But as soon as the dance was over, the little ones again 
gathered round Lily. Evidently she was the prime favorite 
of them all ; and as her companion had now become tired 
of dancing, new sports were proposed, and Lily was carried 
off to “ Prisoner’s Base.” 

“ I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Chil¬ 
lingly,” said a frank, pleasant voice ; and a well-dressed, 
good-looking man held out his hand to Kenelm. 

‘‘ My husband,” said Mrs. Braefield, with a certain pride 
in her look. 

Kenelm responded cordially to the civilities of the mas¬ 
ter of the house, who had just returned from his city office 
and left all its cares behind him. You had only to look at 
him to see that he was prosperous, and deserved to be so. 
There were in his countenance the signs of strong sense, of 
good-humor—above all, of an active energetic temperament. 
A man of broad smooth forehead, keen hazel eyes, firm lips 
and jaw ; with a happy contentment in himself, his house, 
the world in general, mantling over his genial smile and 
outspoken in the metallic ring of his voice. 

“You will stay and dine with us, of course,” said Mr. 
Braefield ; “ and, unless you want very much to be in town 
to-night, I hope you will take a bed here.” 

Kenelm hesitated. 


2^2 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


“ Do Stay a. lea?t till to-morrow,” said Mrs. Braelield. 
Kenelm hesitated still : and while hesitating his eye rested 
on Lily, leaning on the arrx^ of a middle-aged lady, and ap¬ 
proaching the hostess—evidently to take leave. 

“ I cannot resist so tempting an invitation,” said Ken¬ 
elm, and he fell back a little behind Lily and her com¬ 
panion. 

“Thank you much for so pleasant a day,” said Mrs. 
Cameron to the hostess. “ Lily has enjoyed herself ex¬ 
tremely. I only regret we could not come earlier.” 

“ If you are walking home,” said Mr. Braefield, “ let me 
accompany you. I want to speak to your gardener about 
his heart’s-ease—it is much finer than mine.” 

“ If so,” said Kenelm to Lily, “may I come tco ? Of all 
flowers that grow, heart’s-ease is the one I most prze.” 

A few minutes afterwards Kenelm was walking by the 
side of Lily along the banks of a little stream, tributary to 
the Thames-;-Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advai.ce, 
for the path only held two abreast. 

Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly—- 
I think it is called the Emperor of Morocco—that was sun¬ 
ning its yellow wings upon a group of wild reeds. She suc' 
ceeded in capturing this wanderer in her straw hat, over 
which she drew her sun-veil. After this notable capture she 
returned demurely to Kenelm’s side. 

“ Do you collect insects ? ” said that philosopher, as much 
surprised as it was his nature to be at anything. 

“Only butterflies,” answered Lily; “they are not in¬ 
sects, you know ; they are souls.” 

“ Emblems of souls, you mean—at least, so the Greeks 
prettily represented them to be.” 

“ No, real souls—the souls of infants that die in their 
cradles unbaptized ; and if they are taken care of, and not 
eaten by birds, and live a year, then they pass into fairies.’' 

“ It is a very poetical idea. Miss Mordaunt, and founded 
on evidence quite as rational as other assertions of the meta¬ 
morphosis of one creature into another. Perhaps you can 
do what the philosophers cannot—tell me how you learned 
a new idea to be an incontestable fact ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Lily, looking very much puz¬ 
zled ; “ perhaps I learned it in a book, or perhaps I dreamed 
it.” 

“ You could not make a wiser answer if you were a phil¬ 
osopher. But you talk of taking care of butterflies ; how 


kENELM CHILLINGLY. 


do you do that ? Do you impale them on pins stuck into 
a glass case ? ” 

“ Impale them ! How can you talk so cruelly ? You de¬ 
serve to be pinched by the Fairies.” 

“ I am afraid,” thought Kenelm, compassionately, “ that 
my companion has no mind to be formed ; what is euphoni¬ 
ously called ‘an Innocent.’” 

He shook his head and remained silent. Lily resumed •. 

“ I will show you my collection when we get home—they 
seem so happy. I am sure there are some of them who 
know me—they will feed from my hand. I have only had 
one die since I began to collect them last summer.” 

“ Then you have kept them a year ; they ought to have 
turned into fairies.” 

“ I suppose many of them have. Of course I let out all 
those that had been with me twelve months—they don’t turn 
to fairies in the cage, you know. Now I have only those I 
caught this year, or last autumn ; the prettiest don’t appear 
till the autumn.” 

The girl here bent her uncovered head over the straw 
hat, her tresses shadowing it, and uttered loving words to 
the prisoner. Then again she looked up and around her, 
and abruptly stopped, and exclaimed : 

“How can people live in towns—how can people say 
they are ever dull in the country ? Look,” she continued, 
gravely and earnestly—“look at that tall pine-tree, with its 
long branch sweeping over the water; see how, as the 
breeze catches it, it changes its shadow, and how the shadow 
changes the play of the sunlight on the brook :— 

‘ Wave your tops, ye pines ; 

With every plant, in sign of worship wave,’ 

What an interchange of music there must be between Nature 
and a poet! ” 

Kenelm was startled. This “ an innocent” !—this a girl 
who had no mind to be formed ! In that presence he could 
not be cynical; could not speak of Nature as a mechanism, 
a lying humbug ; as he had done to the man poet. He re¬ 
plied gravely : 

“The Creator has gifted the whole universe with lan¬ 
guage, but few are the hearts that can interpret it. Happy 
those to whom it is no foreign tongue, acquired imperfectly 
with care and pain, but rather a native language, learned 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


2 '4 

unconsciously from the lips of the great mother. To theiii 
the butterfly’s wing may well buoy into heaven a fairy’s 
soul ! ” 

When he had thus said, Lily turned, and for the first 
time attentively looked into his dark soft eyes ; then in¬ 
stinctively she laid her light hand on his arm, and said, in a 
low voice, “Talk on—talk thus ; I like to hear you.” 

But Kenelm did not talk on. They had now arrived at 
the garden-gate of Mrs. Cameron’s cottage, and the elder 
persons in advance paused at the gate and walked with them 
to the house. 

It was a long, low, irregular cottage, without pretension 
to architectural beauty, yet exceedingly picturesque—a 
flower-garden, large but in proportion to the house, with 
parterres in which the colors were exquisitely assorted, slop¬ 
ing to the grassy margin of the rivulet, where the stream 
expanded into a lake-like basin, narrowed at either end by 
locks, from which with gentle sound flowed shallow water¬ 
falls. By the banks was a rustic seat, half overshadowed 
by the dropping boughs of a vast willow. 

The inside of the house was in harmony with the exterior 
—cottage-like, but with an unmistakable air of refinement 
about the rooms, even in the little entrance-hall, which was 
painted in Pompeian frescoes. 

“ Come and see my butterfly-cage,” said Lily, whisper- 
ingly. 

Kenelm followed her through the window that opened on 
the garden ; and at one end of a small conservatory, or rather 
greenhouse, was the habitation of these singular favorites. 
It was as large as a small room ; three sides of it formed by 
minute wirework, with occasional draperies of muslin or 
other slight material, and covered at intervals, sometimes 
within, sometimes without, by dainty creepers ; a tiny cistern 
in the centre, from which upsprang a sparkling jet. Lily 
cautiously lifted a sash-door and glided in, elosing it behind 
her. Her entrance set in movement a multitude of gossamer 
wings, some fluttering round her, some more boldly settling 
on her hair or dress. Kenelm thought she had not vainly 
boasted when she said that some of the creatures had learned 
to know her. She relieved the Emperor of Morocco from her 
hat; it circled round her fearlessly, and then vanished amidst 
the leaves of the creepers. Lily opened the door and came 
out. 

“ I have heard of a philosopher who tamed a wasp,” said 


*:EN-ELM CHTLLIi7C,TA\ 


285 

Kenelm, but never before of a young lady who tamed butter- 
Hies ” 

“ No,” said Lily, proudly ; “ I believe I am the first who 
attempted it. I don’t think I should have attempted it if I 
had been told that others had succeeded before me. Not 
that I have succeeded quite. No matter ; if they don’t love 
me, I love them.” 

They re-entered the drawing-room, and Mrs. Cameron 
addressed Kenelm. 

“ Do you know much of this part of the country, Mr. 
Chillingly ? ” 

“It is quite new to me, and more rural tUan many dis- 
tricts farther from London.” 

“ That is the good fortune of most of our home counties,” 
said Mr. Braefield ; “ they escape the smoke and din of manu¬ 
facturing towns, and agricultural science has not demolished 
their leafy hedgerows. The walks through our green lanes 
are as much bordered with convolvulus and honeysuckle as 
they were when Izaak Walton sauntered through them to 
angle in that stream ! ” 

“ Does tradition say that he angled in that stream ? I 
thought his haunts were rather on the other side of London.” 

“ Possibly ; I am not learned in Walton or in his art, but 
there is an old summer-house, on the other side of the lock 
yonder, on which is carved the name of Izaak Walton, but 
whether by his own hand or another’s who shall say ? Has 
Mr. Melville been here lately, Mrs. Cameron ? 

“No, not for several months.” 

“ He has had a glorious success this year. We may hope 
that at last his genius is acknowledged by the world. I 
meant to buy his picture, but I was not in time—a Man¬ 
chester man was before me.” 

“ Who is Mr. Melville ? any relation to you ? ” whispered 
Kenelm to Lily. 

“Relation!—I scarcely know. Yes, I suppose so, be¬ 
cause he is my guardian. But if he were the nearest rela¬ 
tion on earth, I could not love him more,” said Lily, with 
impulsive eagerness, her cheeks flushing, her eyes filling 
with tears. 

“And he is an artist—a painter?” asked Kenelm. 

“ Oh, yes ; no one paints such beautiful pictures—no 
one so clever, no one so kind.” 

Kenelm strove to recollect if he had ever heard the name 
of Melville as a painter, but in vain. Kenelm, however, 


286 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


knew but little of painters^—they were not in his way •, and 
he owned to himself, very humbly, that there might be 
many a living painter of eminent renown whose name and 
works would be strange to him. 

He glanced round the wall. Lily interpreted his look. 
“ There are no pictures of his here,” said she ; “ there is one 
in my own room. I will show it you when you come 
again.” 

“ And now,” said Mr. Braefield, rising, “ I must just 
have a word with your gardener, and then go home. We 
dine earlier here than in London, Mr. Chillingly.” 

As the two gentlemen, after taking leave, re-entered the 
hall, Lily followed them, and said to Kenelm, “ What time 
will you come to-morrow to see the picture ? ” 

Kenelm averted his head, and then replied, not with his 
wonted courtesy, but briefly and brusquely: 

“ I fear I cannot call to-morrow. I shall be far away by 
sunrise.” 

Lily made no answer, but turned back into the room. 

Mr. Braefield found the gardener watering a flower- 
border, conferred with him about the heart’s-ease, and then 
joined Kenelm, who had halted a few yards beyond the 
garden-gate. 

“A pretty little place that,” said Mr. Braefield, with a 
sort of lordly compassion, as became the owner of Braefield- 
ville. “What I call quaint.” 

“Yes, quaint,” echoed Kenelm, abstractedly. 

“ It is always the case with houses enlarged by degrees. 
I have heard my poor mother say that when Melville or Mrs. 
Cameron first bought it, it was little better than a mere 
laborer’s cottage, with a field attached to it. And two or 
three years afterwards a room or so more was built, and a 
bit of the field taken in for a garden ; and then by degrees 
the whole part now inhabited by the family was built, leav¬ 
ing only the old cottage as a scullery and wash-house; and 
the whole field was turned into the garden, as you see. 
But whether it was Melville’s money or the aunt’s that did 
it, I don’t know. More likely the aunt’s. 1 don’t see what 
interest Melville has in the place ; he does not go there 
often, I fancy—it is not his home.” 

“ Mr. Melville, it seems, is a painter, and, from what I 
heard you say, a successful one.” 

“ I fancy he had little success before this year. But 
surely you saw his pictures at the Exhibition ? ” 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 287 

“ I am ashamed to say I have not been to the Exhi¬ 
bition.” 

“You surprise me. However, Melville had three pic¬ 
tures there—all very good ; but the one I wished to buy 
made much more sensation than the others, and has sud¬ 
denly lifted him from obscurity into fame.” 

“ He appears to be a relation of Miss Mordaunt’s, but 
so distant a one that she could not even tell me what grade 
of cousinship he could claim.” 

“ Nor can I. He is her guardian, I know. The relation¬ 
ship, if any, must, as 3 'ou say, be very distant; for Melville 
is of humble extraction, while any one can see that Mrs. 
Cameron is a thorough gentlewoman, and Lily Mordaunt is 
her sister’s child. I have heard my mother say that it was 
Melville, then a very young man, who bought the cottage, 
perhaps with Mrs. Cameron’s money ; saying it was for a 
widowed lad^", whose husband had left her with very small 
means. And when Mrs. Cameron arrived with Lily, then a 
mere infant, she was in deep mourning, and a very young 
woman herself,—pretty, too. If Melville had been a fre¬ 
quent visitor then, of course there would have been scandal ; 
but he very seldom came, and when lie did, he lodged in a 
cottage, Cromwell Lodge, on the other side of the brook; 
now and then bringing with him a fellow-lodger—some 
other young artist, I suppose, for the sake of angling. So 
there could be no cause for scandal, and nothing can be 
more blameless than poor Mrs. Cameron’s life. My mother, 
who then resided at Braefieldville, took a great fancy to both 
Lily and her aunt, and when by degrees the cottage grew into 
genteel sort of place, the few gentry in the neighborhood 
followed my mother’s example and were very kind to Mrs. 
Cameron, so that she has now her place in the society about 
here, and is much liked.” 

“And Mr. Melville ?—does he still very seldom come 
here ? ” 

“ To say truth, he has not been at all since I settled at 
Braefieldville. The place was left to my mother for her life, 
and I was not much there during her occupation. In fact, 
I was then a junior partner in our firm, and conducted the 
branch business in New York, coming over to England for 
my holiday once a year or so. When my mother died, there 
was much to arrange before I could settle personally in 
England, and I did not come to settle at Braefieldville till I 
married. I did see Melville on one of m 3 " visits to the place 


288 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


some years ago ; but, between ourselves, he is not the sort 
of person whose intimate acquaintance one would wish to 
court. Mr mother told me he was an idle, dissipated man, 
and I have heard from others that he was very unsteady. 

Mr.-, the great painter, told me that he was a loose fish ; 

and I suppose his habits were against his getting on, till 
this year, when, perhaps by a lucky accident, he has painted 
a picture that raises him to the top of the trtee. But is not 
Miss Lily wondrously nice to look at? What a pity her 
education has been so much neglected ! ” 

“ Has it ? ” 

“ Have you not discovered that already ? She has not 
had even a music-master, though my wife says she has a 
good ear and can sing prettily enough. As for reading, I 
don’t think she has read anything but fairy-tales and poetry, 
and such silly stuff. However, she is very young yet ; and 
now that her guardian can sell his pictures, it is to be hoped 
that he will do more justice to his ward. Painters and actors 
are not so regular in their private lives as we plain men are, 
and great allowance is to be made for them ; still, every one 
is bound to do his duty. I am sure you agree with me ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Kenelm, with an emphasis which 
startled the merchant. ‘‘That is an admirable maxim of 
yours ; it seems a commonplace, yet how often, when it is 
put into our heads, it strikes as a novelty ! A duty may be 
a very difficult thing, a very disagreeable thing, and, what 
is strange, it is often a very invisible thing. It is present— 
close before us, and yet we don’t see it ; somebody shouts 
its name in our ear, ‘ Duty,’ and straight it towers before us 
a grim giant. Pardon me if I leave you—I can’t stay to 
dine. Duty summons me elsewhere. Make my excuses to 
Mrs. Braefield.” 

Before Mr. Braefield could recover his self-possession, 
Kenelm had vaulted over a stile and was gone. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Kenelm walked into the shop kept by the Somerses, and 
found Jessie still at the counter. “ Give me back my knap¬ 
sack. Thank you,” he said, flinging the knapsack across his 
shoulders. “Now, do me a favor. A portmanteau of mine 




KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


s8g 


ought to be at the station. Send for it, and keep it till I give 
further directions. I think of going to Oxford for a day or 
two. Mrs. Somers, one more word with you. Think, answer 
frankly, are you, as you said this morning, thoroughly hap¬ 
py, and yet married to the man you loved ? ” 

“ Oh, so happy ! ” 

“ And wish for nothing beyond ? Do not wish Will to be 
other than he is ? ” 

“ God forbid ! You frighten me, sir.” 

“Frighten you ! Be it so. Every one who is happy 
should be frightened, lest happiness fly away. Do your best 
to chain it, and you will, for you attach Duty to Happiness ; 
and,” muttered Kenelm, as he turned from the shop, “ Duty 
is sometimes not a rose-colored tie, but a heavy iron-hued 
clog.” 

He strode on through the street towards the sign-post 
with “To Oxford” inscribed thereon. And whether he 
spoke literally of the knapsack, or metaphorically of Duty, 
he murmured, as he strode— 

“ A pedlar’s pack that bows the bearer down.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Kenelm might have reached Oxford that night, for he 
was a rapid and untirable pedestrian ; but he halted a little 
after the moon rose, and laid himself down to rest beneath 
a new-mown haystack, not very far from the high-road. 

He did not sleep. Meditatingly propped on his elbow, 
he said to himself : 

“ It is long since I have wondered at nothing. I wonder 
now: can this be love—really love—unmistakably love? 
Pooh ! it is impossible ; the very last person in the world tc 
be in love with. Let us reason upon it—you, myself, and I. 
To begin with—face ! What is face ? In a few years the 
most beautiful face may be very plain. Take the Venus at 
Florence. Animate her ; see her ten years kfter; a chignon, 
front teeth (blue or artificially white), mottled complexion, 
double chin—all that sort of plump prettiness goes into 
double chin. Face, bah ! What man of sense—what pupil 
of Welby, the realist—can fall in love with a face ? and evQn 

*3 



290 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


if I were simpleton enough to do so, pretty faces are as com* 
mon as daisies. Cecilia Travers has more regular features; 
Jessie Wiles a richer coloring. I was not in love with them 
—not a bit of it. Myself, you have nothing to say there. 
Well, then, mind ? Talk of mind, indeed ! a creature whose 
favorite companionship is that of butterflies, and who tells 
me that butterflies are the souls of infants unbaptized. 
What an article for ‘ The Londoner,’ on the culture of 
young women ! What a girl for Miss Garrett and Miss 
Emily Faithful! Put aside Mind as we have done Face. 
What rests ?—the Frenchman’s ideal of happy marriage ? 
congenial circumstance of birth, fortune, tastes, habits. 
Worse still. Myself, answer honestly, are you not floored ? ” 
Whereon “ Myself ” took up the parable and answered, 
“ O thou fool ! why wert thou so ineffably blest in one 
presence ? Why, in quitting that presence, did Duty become 
so grim ? Why dost thou address to me those inept pedan¬ 
tic questionings, under the light of yon moon, which has 
suddenly ceased to be to thy thoughts an astronomical body, 
and has become, forever and forever, identified in thy heart’s 
dreams with romance and poesy and first love ? Why, in¬ 
stead of gazing on that uncomfortable orb, art thou not 
quickening thy steps towards a cozy inn and a good supper 
at Oxford .? Kenelm, my friend, thou art in for it. No dis¬ 
guising the fact—thou art in love ! ” 

“ I’ll be hanged if I am,” said the Second in the Dualis-.i 
of Kenelm’s mind ; and therewith he shifted his knapsack 
into a pillow, turned his eyes from the moon, and still could 
not sleep. The face of Lily still haunted his eyes—tlie 
voice of Lily still rang in his ears. 

Oh, my reader ! dost thou here ask me to tell thee what 
Lily was like ?—was she dark, was she fair, was she tall, was 
she short ? Never shalt thou learn these secrets from me. 
Imagine to thyself the being to which thine whole of life, 
body and mind and soul, moved irresistibly as the needle to 
the pole. Let her be tall or short, dark or fair, she is that 
which out of all womankind has suddenly become the one, 
woman for thee. Fortunate art thou, my reader, if thou 
chance to have heard the popular song of ‘‘ My Queen ” sung 
by the one lady who alone can sing it with expression wor¬ 
thy the verse of the poetess and the music of the composi¬ 
tion, by the sister of the exquisite songstress. But if thou 
hast not heard the verse thus sung, to an accompaniment 
composedj still tte theuiselyQs. ^re, or ought to 



KENELM cm LUNG L Y. 


291 


be, familiar to thee, if thou art, as I take for granted, a 
lover of the true lyrical muse. Recall then the words sup¬ 
posed to be uttered by him who knows himself destined tQ 
do homage to one he has not yet beheld : 

“ She is standing somewhere—she I shall honor. 

She that I wait for, my queen, my queen; 

Whether her hair be golden or raven. 

Whether her eyes be hazel or blue, 

I know not now, it will be engraven 
Some day hence as my loveliest hue, 

“ She may be humble or proud, my lady. 

Or that sweet calm which is just between ; 

But whenever she comes, she will find me ready 
To do her homage, my queen, my queen.” 

Was it possible that the cruel boy-god “ who sharpens his 
arrows on the whetstone of the human heart ” had found the 
moment to avenge himself for the neglect of his altars and 
the scorn of his power ! Must that redoubted knight-errant, 
the hero of this tale, despite The Three Fishes on his charmed 
shield, at last veil the crest and bow the knee, and murmur 
to himself, ‘‘ She has come, my queen ’’ ! 


CHAPTER VUl, 

The next morning Kenelm arrived at Oxford—“Verum 
secrctumque Mouseion.” 

If there be a place in this busy island which may distract 
the passions of youth from love to scholarship, to Ritualism, 
to mediaeval associations, to that sort of poetical sentiment or 
poetical fanaticism which a Mivers and a Welby and an advo¬ 
cate of the Realistic School would hold in contempt—cer¬ 
tainly that place is Oxford. Home, nevertheless, of great 
thinkers and great actors in the practical world. 

The vacation had not yet commenced, but the commence¬ 
ment was near at hand, Kenelm thought he could recognize 
the leading men by their slower walk and more abstracted 
expression of countenance. Among the fellows was the emi¬ 
nent author of that book which liad so powerfully fascinated 
the earlier adolescence of Kenelm Chillingly, and who had 
himself been subject to the bTScination. Qf yet stronger 



292 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Spirit. The Rev. Decimus- Roach had been ever an intense 
and reverent admirer of John Henry Newman—an admirer, I 
mean, of the pure and lofty character of the man, quite apart 
from sympathy with his doctrines. But although Roach 
remained an unconverted Protestant of orthodox, if High 
Church, creed, yet there was one tenet he did hold in com¬ 
mon with the author of the ' Apologia.’ He ranked celibacy 
among the virtues most dear to Heaven. In that eloquent 
treatise, ‘The Approach to the AngeLs,’ he not only main 
tained that the state of single blessedness was strictly incum¬ 
bent on every member of a Christian priesthood, but to be 
commended to the adoption of every conscientious layman. 

It was the desire to confer with this eminent theologian 
that had induced Keneim to direct his steps to Oxford. 

Mr. Roach was a friend of Welby’s, at whose house, when 
a pupil, Keneim had once or twice met him, and been even 
more charmed by his conversation than by his treatise. 
Keneim called on Mr. Roach, who received him very gra¬ 
ciously, and, not being a tutor or examiner, placed his time 
at Kenelm’s disposal ; took him the round of the colleges 
and the Bodleian ; invited him to dine in his college-hall; 
and after dinner led him into his own rooms and gave him 
an excellent bottle of Ch'iteau-Margaux. 

Mr. Roach was somewdiere about fifty—a good-looking 
man, and evidently thought himself so, for he wore his hair 
long behind and parted in the middle ; which is not done by 
men who form modest estimates of their personal appear¬ 
ance. 

Keneim was not long in drawing out his host on the sub¬ 
ject to which that profound thinker had devoted so much 
meditation. 

“ I can scarcely convey to you,” said Keneim, “ the intense 
admiration with which I have studied your noble work, 

‘ Approach to the Angels.’ It produced a great effect on me 
in the age between boyhood and youth. But of late some 
doubts on the universal application of your doctrine have 
crept into my mind.” 

“Ay, indeed?” said Mr. Roach, with an expression oi 
interest in his face. 

“And I come to you for their solution.” 

Mr. Roach turned away his head, and pushed the bottle 
to Keneim. 

“ I am quite willing to concede,” resumed the heir of the 
ChiilinglySj “ that a priesthood should stand apart from 


KEISTRLM CHtLLiNGL K 2^3 

distracting cares of a family, and pure from all carnal affec¬ 
tions.” 

Hem, hem,” grunted Mr. Roach, taking his knee on his 
lap and caressing it. 

“ I go further,” continued Kenelm, “and supposing with 
you that the Confessional has all the importance, whether in 
its monitory or its cheering effects upon repentant sinners, 
which is attached to it by the Roman Catholics, and that it 
ought to be no less cultivated by the Reformed Church, it 
seems to me essential that the Confessor should have no 
better half to whom it can be even suspected he may, in an 
unguarded moment, hint at the frailties of one of her female 
acquaintances.” 

“ I pushed that argument too far,” murmured Roach. 

“ Not a bit of it. Celibacy in the Confessor stands or 
falls with the Confessional. Your argument there is as sound 
as a bell. But when it comes to the layman, I think I detect 
a difference.” 

Mr. Roach shook his head, and replied, stoutly, “ No ; 
if celibacy be incumbent on the one, it is equally incumbent 
on the other. I say ‘ if.’ ” 

“ Permit me to deny that assertion. Do not fear that I 
shall insult your understanding by the popular platitude — 
viz,, that if celibacy were universal, in a very few years the 
human race would be extinct. As you have justly observed, 
in answer to that fallacy, ‘ It is the duty of each human soul 
to strive towards the highest perfection of the spiritual state 
for itself, and leave the fate of the human race to the care of 
the Creator.’ If celibacy be necessary to spiritual perfection, 
how do we know but that it may be the purpose and decree 
of the All-Wise that the human race, having attained to that 
perfection, should disappear from earth ? Universal celibacy 
would thus be the euthanasia of mankind. On the other 
hand, if the Creator decided that the human race, having 
culminated to this crowning but barren flower of perfection, 
should nevertheless continue to increase and multiply upon 
earth, have you not victoriously exclaimed, ‘ Presumptuous 
mortal ! how can’st thou presume to limit the resources of 
the Almighty? Would it not be easy for Him to continue 
som^ other mode, unexposed to trouble and sin and passion, 
as in the nuptials of the vegetable world, by which the 
generations will be renewed ? Can we suppose that the 
angels—the immortal companies of heaven—are not hourly 
increasing in number, and extending their population? 


KEl^ELM CmiLrN'GLV. 


throughout infinity ? and yet in heaven there is no marry^ 
ing nor giving in marriage.’—All this, clothed by you in 
words which my memory only serves me to quote imper¬ 
fectly—all this I unhesitatingly concede.” 

Mr. Roach rose and brought another bottle of the Cha- 
teau-Margaux from his cellaret, filled Kenelm’s glass, re¬ 
seated himself, and took the other knee into his lap to 
caress. 

“ But,” resumed Kenelm, “ my doubt is this.” 

‘‘ Ha ! ” cried Mr. Roach, “ Let us hear the doubt.” 

“ In the first place, is celibacy essential to the highest 
state of spiritual perfection ? and, in the second place, if it 
were, are mortals, as at present constituted, capable of that 
culmination?” 

‘‘Very well put,” said Mr. Roach, and he tossed off his 
glass with more cheerful aspect than he had hitherto ex¬ 
hibited. 

“ You see, said Kenelm, “we are compelled in this, as in 
other questions of philosophy, to resort to the inductive pro¬ 
cess, and draw our theories from the facts within our cog¬ 
nizance. Now, looking round the world, is it the fact that 
old maids and old bachelors are so much more spiritually 
advanced than married folks ? Do they pass their time, 
like an Indian dervish, in serene contemplation of divine 
excellence and beatitude ? Are they not quite as worldly 
in their own way as persons who have been married as often 
as the Wife of Bath, and, generally speaking, more selfish, 
more frivolous, and more spiteful ? I am sure I don’t wish 
to speak uncharitably against old maids and old bachelors. 
I have three aunts who are old maids, and fine specimens 
of the genus ; but I am sure they would all three have been 
more agreeable companions, and quite as spiritually gifted, 
if they had been happily married, and were caressing their 
children instead of lap-dogs. So, too, I have an old-bachelor 
cousin. Chillingly Mivers, whom you know. As clever as a 
man can be. But, Lord bless you ! as to being wrapt in 
spiritual meditation, he could not be more devoted to the 
things of earth if he had married as many wives as Solomon 
and had as many children as Priam. Finally, have not 
half the mistakes in the world arisen from a separation be¬ 
tween the spiritual and the moral nature of man ? Is it not, 
after all, through his dealings with his fellow-men that man 
makes his safest ‘ approach to the angels ?’ And is not the, 
moral system a very muscular system ? Does it not require 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


m 

for healthful vigor plenty of continued exercise, and does it 
not get tnat exercise naturally, by the relationships of fam¬ 
ily, with all the wider collateral struggles with life which 
the care of family necessitates ? 

“ I put these questions to you with the humblest diffi 
dence. I expect to hear such answers as will thoroughly 
convince my reason, and I shall be delighted if so. For at 
the root of the controversy lies the passion of love. And 
love must be a very disquieting, troublesome emotion, and 
has led many heroes and sages into wonderful weaknesses 
and follies.” 

“ Gently, gently, Mr. Chillingly ; don’t exaggerate. Love, 
no doubt, is—ahem—a disquieting passion. Still, every 
emotion that changes life from a stagnant pool into the 
freshness and play of a running stream is disquieting to the 
pool. Not only love and its fellow-passions— such as am¬ 
bition—but the exercise of the reasoning faculty, which is al¬ 
ways at work in changing our ideas, is very disquieting. 
Love, Mr. Chillingly, has its good side as well as its bad. 
Pass the bottle.” 

Kenelm (passing the bottle).—“ Yes, yes ; you are quite 
right in putting the adversary’s case strongly before you de¬ 
molish it—all good rhetoricians do that Pardon me if I 
am up to that trick in argument. Assume that I know all 
that can be said in favor of the abnegation of common- 
sense, euphoniously called ‘ Love,’ and proceed to the de^ 
molition of the case.” 

The Rev. Decimus Roach (hesitatingly). — “The demo 
lition of the case ? humph ! The passions are ingrafted in 
the human system as part and parcel of it, and are not to be 
demolished so easily as you seem to think. Love, taken ra¬ 
tionally and morally by a man of good education and sound 
principles, is—is ” 

Kenelm. —“ Well, is what ? ” 

The Rev. Decimus Roach. —“A—a—a—thing not to be 
despised. Like the sun, it is the great colorist of life, Mr. 
Chillingly. And you are so right—the moral system does 
require daily exercise. What can give that exercise to a 
solitary man, when he arrives at the practical age in w^hich 
he cannot sit for six hours at a stretch musing on the di¬ 
vine essence, and rheumatism or other ailments forbid his 
adventure into the wilds of Africa as a missionary ? At 
that age. Nature, which will be heard, Mr. Chillingly, de¬ 
mands her rights. A sympathizing female companion by one’s 


i <)6 


KENELM CHiLlWgLY. 


side ; innocent little children climbing one’s knee,—lovely, 
bewitching picture ! Who can be Goth enough to rub it 
out, who fanatic enough to paint over it the image of a St 
Simon sitting alone on a pillar ! Take another glass. You 
don’t drink enough, Mr. Chillingly.” 

“ 1 have drunk enough,” replied Kenelm, in a sullen 
voice, “ to think I see double. I imagined that before me 
sat the austere adversary of the insanity of love and the 
miseries of wedlock. Now I fancy I listen to a puling sen-; 
timentalist uttering the platitudes which the other Decimus 
Roach had already refuted. Certainly either I see double, 
or you amuse yourself with mocking my appeal to your 
wisdom.” 

“ Not so, Mr. Chillingly. But the fact is, that when I 
wrote that book of which you speak, I was young, and 
youth is enthusiastic and one-sided. Now, with the same dis¬ 
dain of the excesses to which love may hurry weak intel¬ 
lects, I recognize its benignant elfects when taken, as I be¬ 
fore said, rationally—taken rationally, my young friend. At 
that period of life when the judgment is matured, the 
soothing companionship of an amiable female cannot but 
cheer the mind and prevent that morose hoar-frost into 
which solitude is chilled and made rigid by increasing years. 
In short, Mr. Chillingly, having convinced myself that I 
erred in the opinion once too rashly put forth, I owe it to 
Truth, I owe it to Mankind, to make my conversion known 
to the world. And I am about next month to enter into the 
matrimonial state with a young lady who-” 

“ Say no more, say no more, Mr. Roach. It must be a 
painful subject to you. Let us drop it.” 

“ It is not a painful subject at all! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Roach, with warmth. “ I look forward to the fulfilment of 
my duty with the pleasure which a well-trained mind always 
ought to feel in recanting a fallacious doctrine. But you 
do me the justice to understand that of course I do not take 
this step I propose—for my personal satisfaction. No, sir, 
it is the value of my example to others, which purifies my 
motives and animates my soul.” 

After this concluding and noble sentence, the conversa¬ 
tion drooped. Host and guest both felt they had had 
enough of each other. Kenelm soon rose to depart. 

Mr. Roach, on taking leave of him at the door, said, 
with marked emphasis : 

“Not for my personal satisfaction—remember that’ 



crnLLiMGlY. ±gj 

Whenever you hear my conversion discussed in the world, 
say that from my own lips you heard these words— not for 
MY PERSONAL SATISFACTION. No! My kind regards to Welby 
—a married man himself, and a father; Ee will understand 
me.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

On quitting Oxford, Kenelm wandered for several days 
about the country, advancing to no definite goal, meeting 
with no noticeable adventure. At last he found himself 
mechanically retracing his steps. A magnetic influence he 
could not resist drew him back towards the grassy meads 
and the sparkling rill of Moleswich. 

“ There must be,” said he to himself, “ a mental, like an 
optical, illusion. In the last, we fancy we have seen a 
spectre. If we dare not face the apparition—dare not at¬ 
tempt to touch it—run superstitiously away from it—what 
happens ? We shall believe to our dying day that it was not 
an illusion—that it was a spectre—and so we may be crazed 
for life. But if we manfully walk up to the Phanton, 
stretch our hands to seize it, lo ! it fades into thin air, the 
cheat of our eyesight is dispelled, and we shall never be 
ghost-ridden again. So it must be with this mental illusion 
of mine. I see an image strange to my experience—it 
seems to me, at that first sight, clothed with a supernatural 
charm ; like an unreasoning coward, I run away from it. It 
continues to haunt me ; I cannot shut out its apparition. It 
pursues me by day alike in the haunts of men—alike in the 
solitudes of nature ; it visits me by night in my dreams. 
I begin to say this must be a real visitant from another 
world—it must be love—the love of which I read in the 
Poets, as in the Poets I read of witchcraft and ghosts. 
Surely I must approach that apparition as a. philosopher 
like Sir David Brewster would approach the black cat 
seated on a hearth-rug, which he tells us that some lady of 
his acquaintance constantly saw till she went into a world 
into which black cats are not held to be admitted. The 
more I think of it, the less it appears to me possible that I 
can be really in love with a wild, half-educated, anomalous 
creature, merely because the apparition of her face haunts 

13* 



kE^ELM CHILLINCLV. 


me. With perfect safety, therefore, I can approach that 
creature ; in proportion as I see more of her, the illusion 
will vanish. I will go back to Moleswich manfully.” 

Thus said Kenelm to himself, and himself answered : 

“Go; for thou canst not help it. Thinkest thou that 
Daces can escape the net that has meshed a Roach ? No : 

‘ Come it will, the day decreed by fate,’ 

when thou must succumb to the ‘ nature which will be heard.' 
Better succumb now, and with a good grace, than resist till 
thou hast reached thy fiftieth year, and then mako a rational 
choice not for thy personal satisfaction.” 

Whereupon Kenelm answered to himself, indignantly, 
“ Pooh! thou flippant. My alter ego, thou knowest not 
what thou art talking about ! It is not a question of nature ; 
it is a question of the supernatural—an illusion—a 
phanton ! ” 

Thus Kenelm and himself continued to quarrel with each 
other ; and the more they quarrelled, the nearer they ap¬ 
proached to the haunted spot in which had been seen, and 
fled from, the fatal apparition of first love 


BOOK VI. 


CHAPTER I. 

Sir Peter had not heard from Kenelm since a letter in^ 
forming him that his son had left town on an excursion, 
which would probably be short, though it might last a few 
weeks ; and the good Baronet now resolved to go to London 
himself, take his chance of Kenelm’s return, and if still ab¬ 
sent, at least learn from Mivers and others how far that very 
eccentric planet had contrived to steer a regular course 
amidst the fixed stars of the metropolitan system. He had 
other reasons for his journey. He wished to make the ac¬ 
quaintance of Gordon Chillingly before handing him ovei 
the ;^2o,ooo which Kenelm had released in that resettlement 
of estates, the necessary deeds of which the young heir had 
signed before quitting London for Moleswich. Sir Peter 
wished still more to see Cecilia Travers, in whom Kenelm’s 
accounts of her had inspired a very strong interest. 

The day after his arrival in town Sir Peter breakfasted 
with Mivers. 

“ Upon my word you are very comfortable here,” said 
Sir Peter, glancing at the well-appointed table and round 
the well-furnished rooms. 

“ Naturally so—there is no one to prevent my being com¬ 
fortable. I am not married;—taste that omelette.” 

“ Some men declare they never knew comfort till they 
were married, cousin Mivers.” 

“ Some men are reflecting bodies, and catch a pallid gleam 
from the comfort which a wife concentres on herself. With 
a fortune so modest and secure, what comforts, possessed 
by me now, would not a Mrs. Chillingly Mivers ravish from 
my hold and appropriate to herself! Instead of these 
pleasant rooms, where should I be lodged ? In a dingy den 
looking on a backyard, excluded from the sun by day and 
vocal with cats by night ; while Mrs. Mivers luxuriated in 


366 


KEMEI. M CHiL UMGE V. 


two drawing-rooms with southern aspect and perhaps a bou^ 
doir. My brougham would be torn from my uses and nio- 
nopolized by ‘ the angel of my hearth,’ clouded in her crin¬ 
oline and halved by her chignon. No ! if ever I marry—and 
I never deprive myself of the civilities and needlework which 
single ladies waste upon me, by saying I shall not marry— 
it will be when women have fully established their rights ; 
for then men may have a chance of vindicating their own. 
Then, if there are two drawing-rooms in the house, I shall 
take one, if not, we will toss up who shall have the back 
parlor ; if we keep a brougham, it will be exclusively mine 
three days in the week ; if Mrs. M. wants ^£200 a year for 
her wardrobe, she must be contented with one, the other 
half will belong to my personal decoration ; if I am oppressed 
by proof-sheets and printers’ devils, half of the oppression 
falls to her lot, while I take my holiday on the croquet- 
ground at Wimbledon. Yes, when the present wrongs of 
women are exchanged for equality with men, I will cheer¬ 
fully marry ; and to do the thing generous, I will not oppose 
Mrs. M.’s voting in the vestry or for Parliament. I will give 
her my own votes with pleasure.” 

“ I fear, my dear cousin, that you have infected Kenelm 
with your selfish ideas on the nuptial state. He does not 
seem inclined to marry—eh?” 

“ Not that I know of.” 

“What sort of a girl is Cecilia Travers ?” 

“ One of those superior girls who are not likely to tower 
into that terrible giantess called ‘ a superior woman.’ A 
handsome, well-educated, sensible young lady. Not spoilt 
by being an heiress—in fine, just the sort of a girl whom you 
could desire to fix on for a daughter-in-law.” 

“ And you don’t think Kenelm has a fancy for her ? ” 

“ Honestly speaking—I do not.” 

“Any counter-attraction? There are some things in 
which sons do not confide in their fathers. You have never 
heard that Kenelm has been a little wild ? ” 

“Wild he is, as the noble savage who ran in woods,” 
said cousin Mivers. 

“You frighten me!” 

“ Before the noble savage ran across the squaws, and was 
wise enough to run away from them. Kenelm has run away 
now, somewhere.” 

“Yes, he does not tell me where, nor do they know at^ 
his lodgings. A heap of notes on his table, and no directions 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


301 


where they are to be forwarded. On the whole, however, 
he has held his own in London society—eh ? ” 

“ Certainly! he has been more courted than most young 
men, and perhaps more talked of. Oddities generally 
are.” 

“You own he has talents above the average ? Do you 
not think he will make a figure in the world some day, and 
discharge that debt to the literary stores or the political in¬ 
terests of his country which, alas, I and my predecessors, 
the other Sir Peters, failed to do, and for which I hailed his 
birth and gave him the name of Kenelm ? ” 

“Upon my word,” answered Mivers—who had now 
finished his breakfast, retreated to an easy chair, and taken 
from the chimney-piece one of his famous trabucos,—“ upon 
my word I can’t guess ; if some great reverse of fortune be¬ 
fell him, and he had to work for his livelihood, or if some 
other direful calamity gave a shock to his nervous system 
and jolted it into a fussy fidgety direction, I daresay he might 
make a splash in that current of life which bears men on to 
the grave. But you see he wants, as he himself very truly 
says, the two stimulants to definite action —poverty and van- 
ity.” 

“ Surely there have been great men who were neither 
poor nor vain ?” 

“ I doubt it. But vanity is a ruling motive that takes 
many forms and many aliases—call it ambition, call it love 
of fame, still its substance is the same—the desire of applause 
carried into fussiness of action.” 

“There may be the desire for abstract truth without care 
for applause.” 

“ Certainly. A philosopher on a desert island may amuse 
lumself by meditating on the distinction between light and 
neat. But if on returning to the world he publish the result 
of his meditations, vanity steps in and desires to be ap¬ 
plauded.” 

“ Nonsense, cousin Mivers ! he may rather desire to be 
of use and benefit to mankind. You don’t deny that there 
is such a thing as philanthropy ? ” 

“ I don’t deny that there is such a thing as humbug. 
And whenever I meet a man who has the face to tell me 
that he is taking a great deal of trouble, and putting himself 
very much out of his way, for a philanthropical object, 
without the slightest idea of reward either in praise or 
pence, I know that I have a humbug before me —a danger- 


302 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


ous humbug—a swindling humbug — a fellow with hia 
pocket full of villanous prospectuses and appeals to sub¬ 
scribers.” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! leave off that affectation of cynicism ; you 
are not a bad-hearted fellow—you must love mankind—you 
must have an interest in the welfare of posterity.” 

“Love mankind ? Interest in posterity ? Bless my soul, 
cousin Peter, I hope you have no prospectuses \w your pock¬ 
ets ; no schemes for draining the Pontine Marshes out of 
pure love to mankind ; no propositions for doubling the in¬ 
come tax, as a reserve fund for posterity should our coal¬ 
fields fail three thousand years hence. Love of mankind ! 
Rubbish ! This comes of living in the country.” 

“ But you do love the human race—you do care for the 
generations that are to come.” 

“ I! Not a bit of it. On the contrary, I rather dislike 
the human race, taking it altogether, and including the 
Australian bushmen ; and I don’t believe any man who tells 
me that he would grieve half as much if ten millions of 
human beings were swallowed up by an earthquake at a 
considerable distance from his own residence, say Abyssinia, 
as he would for a rise in his butcher’s bills. As to pos¬ 
terity, who would consent to have a month’s fit ol the gout 
or tic-douloureux in order that in the fourth thousand year, 
A.D., posterity should enjoy a perfect system of sewage ? ” 

Sir Peter, who had recently been afflicted by a very 
sharp attack of neuralgia, shook his head, but was too con¬ 
scientious not to keep silence. 

“To turn the subject,” said Mivers, relighting the cigar 
which he had laid aside while delivering himself of his amia¬ 
ble opinions, “ I think you would do well, while in town, 
to call on your old friend Travers and be introduced to 
Cecilia. If you think as favorably of her as I do, why not 
ask father and daughter to pay you a visit at Exmundham ? 
Girls think more about a man when they see the place 
which he can offer to them as a home, and Exmundham is 
an attractive place to girls—picturesque and romantic.” 

“A very good idea,” cried Sir Peter, heartily. “And I 
want also to make the acquaintance of Chillingly Gordon. 
Give me his address.” 

“ Here is his card on the chimney-piece : take it; you 
will always find him at home till two o’clock. He is too 
sensible to waste the forenoon in riding out in Hyde Parl^ 
with young ladies..” 


KExVELM CHILLINGL K 


303 


“Give me yoiir frank opinion of that young kinsman. 
Kenelm tells me that he is clever and ambitious.” 

“ Kenelm speaks truly. He is not a m.an who will talk 
stuff about love of mankind and posterity. He is of our 
day, with large keen wide-awake eyes, that look only on 
such portions of mankind as can be of use to him- and do 
not spoil their sight by poring through cracked telescopes, 
to catcli a glimpse of posterity. Gordon is a man to be a 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, perhaps a Prime Minister.” 

“ And old Gordon’s son is cleverer than my boy — than 
the namesake of Kenelm Digby ! ” and Sir Peter sighed. 

“ I did not say that. I am cleverer than Chillingly Gor¬ 
don, and the proof of it is that I am too clever to wish to 
be Prime Minister — very disagreeable office — hard work — 
irregular hours for meals — much abuse and confirmed dys¬ 
pepsia.” 

Sir Peter went away rather down-hearted. He found 
Chillingly Gordon at home in a lodging in Jermyn Street. 
Though prepossessed against him by all he had heard. Sir 
Peter was soon propitiated in his favor. Gordon had a 
frank man-of-the-world way with him, and much too fine a 
tact to utter any sentiments likely to displease an old-fash¬ 
ioned country gentleman, and a relation who might possibly 
be of service in his career. He touched briefly, and with 
apparent feeling, on the unhappy litigation commenced by 
his father ; spoke with affectionate praise of Kenelm ; and 
with a discriminating good-nature of Mivers, as a man who, 
to parody the epigram on Charles 11 ., 

“ Never says a kindly thing, 

And never does a harsh one.” 

Then he drew Sir Peter on to talk of the country and 
agricultural prqspects ; learned that among his objects in 
visiting town was the wish to inspect a patented hydr—^ 
ram that might be very useful for his farmyard, whicn Trcwj 
ill supplied with water ; startled the Baronet by evincing 
some practical knowledge of mechanics ; insisted on accom¬ 
panying him to the city to inspect the ram ; did so, and ap¬ 
proved the purchase ; took him next to see a new American 
reaping-machine, and did not part with him till he had ob-,, 
tained Sir Peter’s promise to dine with him at the Garrick, 
—an invitation peculiarly p.greeable to Sir Peter, who had a 
natural curiosity to sec some of the more recently distim 


304 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


guished frequenters of that social cluh. As, on quitting 
Gordon, Sir Peter took his way to the house of Leopold 
Travers, his thoughts turned with much kindliness towards 
his young kinsman. “ Mivers and Kenelm,” quoth he to 
himself, “gave me an unfavorable impression of this lad ; 
they represent him as worldly, self-seeking, and so forth. 
Bui Mivers takes sucL cynical views of character, and Ken¬ 
elm is too eccentric to judge faiily of a sensible man of the 
world. At all events, it is not like an egotist to put himsell 
out of his way to be so civil to an old fellow like me. A 
young man about town must have pleasanter modes of pass¬ 
ing his day than inspecting hydraulic rams and reaping- 
machines. Clever they allow him to be. Yes, decidedly 
clever—and not offensively clever—practical.” 

Sir Peter found Travers in the dining-room with his 
daughter, Mrs. Campion, and Lady Glenalvon. Travers 
was one of those men, rare in middle age, who are more 
often to be found in their drawing-room than in their private 
study; he was fond of female society ; and perhaps it was 
this predilection which contributed to preserve in him the 
charm of good breeding and winning manners. The two 
men had not met for many years ; not, indeed, since Travers 
.was at the zenith of his career of fashion, and Sir Peter was 
one of those pleasant dilettanti and half-humoristic conversa¬ 
tionalists who become popular and courted diners-out. 

Sir Peter had originally been a moderate Whig because 
his father had been one before him, but he left the Whig 
party with the Duke of Richmond, Mr. Stanley (afterw^ards 
Lord Derby), and others, when it seemed to him that that 
party had ceased to be moderate. 

Leopold Travers had, as a youth in the Guards, been a 
high Tory, but, siding with Sir Robert Peel on the repeal 
of the Corn Laws, remained with the Peelites after the bulk 
of the Tory party had renounced the guidance of their 
*^Uief, and now went with these Peelites in w’hatever 
dircciriv.-.* .^>#'ogress of the age might impel their strides 
in advance of Whigs and in defiance of Tories. 

However, it is not the politics of these two gentlemen 
that are in question now. As I have just said, they had not 
met for many years. Travers was very little changed. Sir 
Peter recognized him at a glance ; Sir Peter w’as much 
changed, and Travers hesitated before, on hearing his name 
announced, he felt quite sure that it was the right Sir Peter 
cowards whom he advanced and to whom he extended his 


KENELM CHTi^LlNGLY. 


y>5 

cordial hand. Travers preserved the coloi of his nair and 
the neat proportions of his figure, and was as scrupulously 
well dressed as in his dandy days. Sir Peter, originally very 
thin and with fair locks and dreamy blue eyes, had now be¬ 
come rather portly, at least towards the middle of him— 
very gray—had long ago taken to spectacles—his dress, too, 
was very old-fashioned, and made by a country tailor. He 
looked quite as much a gentleman as Travers did ; quite 
perhaps as healthy, allowing for difference of years ; quite 
as likely to last his time. But between them was the differ¬ 
ence of the nervous temperament and the lymphatic. Trav¬ 
ers, with less brain than Sir Peter, had kept his brain con¬ 
stantly active; Sir Peter had allowed his brain to dawdle 
over old books and lazy delight in letting the hours slip by. 
Therefore Travers still looked young—alert—up to his day, 
up to anything ; while Sir Peter, entering that drawing¬ 
room, seemed a sort of Rip Van Winkle who had slept 
through the past generation and looked on the present with 
eyes yet drowsy. Still, in those rare moments when he was 
thoroughly roused up, there would have been found in Sir 
Peter a glow of heart, nay, even a vigor of thought, much 
more expressive than the constitutional alertness that charac 
terized Leopold Travers, of the attributes we most love and 
admire in the young. 

“ My dear Sir Peter, is it you ? I am so glad to see you 
again,” said Travers. “ What an age since we met, and hoW 
condescendingly kind you were then to me ; silly fop that I 
was ! But bygones are bygones ; come to the present. Let 
me introduce to you, first, my valued friend, Mrs. Campion, 
whose distinguished husband you remember. Ah, what 
pleasant meetings we had at his house! And next, that 
young lady of whom she takes motherly charge ; my daugh¬ 
ter Cecilia. Lady Glenalvon, your wife’s friend, of course 
needs no introduction : time stands still with her.” 

Sir Peter lowered his spectacles, which in reality he only 
wanted for books in small print, and gazed attentively on 
the three ladies—at each gaze a bow. But while his eyes 
were still lingeringly fixed on Cecilia, Lady Glenalvon ad¬ 
vanced, naturally, in right of rank and the claim of old ac¬ 
quaintance, the first of the three to greet him. 

“ Alas, my dear Sir Peter ! time does not stand still for 
any of us ; but what matter, if it leaves pleasant footprints ? 
When I see you again, my youth comes before me. My 
early friend, Caroling BrQtherton^ now Lady Chillingly; 


3o6 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


our girlish walks with each other ; wreaths and ball-dresses 
the practical topic : prospective husbands, the dream at a 
distance. Come and sit here : tell me aU about Caroline.” 

Sir Peter, who had little to say about Caroline that 
could possibly interest anybody but himself, nevertheless 
took his seat beside Lady Glenalvon, and, as in duty bound, 
made the most flattering account of his She Baronet which 
experience or invention would allow. All the while, how¬ 
ever, his thoughts were on Kenelm, and his eyes on Cecilia. 

Cecilia resumes some mysterious piece of lady’s work— 
no matter what—perhaps embroidery for a music-stool, 
perhaps a pair of slippers for her father (which, being rather 
vain of his feet and knowing they look best in plain morocco, 
he will certainly never wear). Cecilia appears absorbed in 
her occupation ; but her eyes and her thoughts are on Sir 
Peter. Why, my lady reader may guess. And oh, so flatter¬ 
ingly, so lovingly fixed ! She thinks he has a most charm¬ 
ing, intelligent, benignant countenance. She admires even 
his old-fashioned frock-coat, high neckcloth, and strapped 
trousers. She venerates his gray hairs, pure of dye. She 
tries to find a close resemblance between that fair, blue¬ 
eyed, plumpish elderly gentleman and the lean, dark-eyed, 
saturnine, lofty Kenelm ; she detects the likeness which 
nobody else would. She begins to love Sir Peter, though 
he has not said a word to her. 

Ah! on this, a word for what it is worth to you, my 
young readers. You, sir, wishing to marry a girl who is to 
be deeply, lastingly in love with you, and a thoroughly good 
wife practically, consider well how she takes to your par¬ 
ents—how she attaches to them an inexpressible sentiment, 
a disinterested reverence—even should you but dimly re¬ 
cognize the sentiment, or feel the reverence, how if between 
you and your parents some little cause of coldness arise, 
she will charm you back to honor your father and your 
mother, even though they are not particularly genial to her 
—well, if you win that sort of girl as your wife, think you 
nave got a treasure. You have won a woman to whom 
Heaven has given the two best attributes—intense feeling 
of love, intense sense of duty. What, my dear lady reader, 
I say of one sex, I say of another, though in a less degree ; 
because a girl who marries becomes of her husband’s family, 
and the man does not become of his wife’s. Still I distrust 
the depth of any man’s love to a woman, if he does not fe.el 
t great degree of tenderness (and forbearance where differ- 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


307 


ences arise) for her parents. But the wife must not so put 
them in the foreground as to make the husband'fhink he is 
cast into the cold of the shadow. Pardon this intolerable 
length of digression, dear reader— it is not altogether a di¬ 
gression, for it belongs to my tale that you should clearly 
understand the sort of girl that is personified in Cecilia 
T ravers. 

“What has become of Kenelm ?” asks Lady Glenalvon. 

“ I wish I could tell you,” answers Sir Peter. “ He 
wrote me v^ord that he was going forth on rambles into 
‘fresh woods and pastures new,’ perhaps for some weeks. 
I have not had a word from him since.” 

“ You make me uneasy,” said Lady Glenalvon. “ I hope 
nothing can have happened to him—he cannot have fallen 
ill.” 

Cecilia stops her work, and looks up wistfully. 

“ Make your mind easy,” said Travers with a laugh ; “ I 
am in his secret. Pie has challenged the champion of Eng¬ 
land, and gone into the country to train.” 

“Very likely,” said Sir Peter, quietly ; “ I should not be 
in the least surprised : should you. Miss Travers ?” 

“ I think it more probable that Mr. Chillingly is do¬ 
ing some kindness to others which he wishes to keep con¬ 
cealed.” 

Sir Peter was pleased with this reply, and drew his chair 
nearer to Cecilia’s. Lady Glenalvon, charmed to bring 
those two together, soon rose and took leave. 

Sir Peter remained nearly an hour, talking chiefly with 
Cecilia, who won her way into his heart with extraordinary 
ease ; and he did not quit the house till he had engaged her 
father, Mrs. Campion, and herself to pay him a week’s visit 
at Exmundham, towards the end of the London season, 
which was fast approaching. 

Having obtained this promise, Sir Peter went away, and 
ten minutes after Mr. Gordon Chillingly entered the draw- 
ing-roon.. Me had already established a visiting acquain¬ 
tance with the Traverses. Travers had taken a liking to 
him. Mrs. Campion found him an extremely well-informed, 
unaffected young man, very superior to young men in gen¬ 
eral. Cecilia was cordially polite to Kenelm’s cousin. 

Altogether, that was a very happy day for Sir Peter. 
He enjoyed greatly his dinner at the Garrick, where he met 
some old acquaintances and was presented to some new 
“celebrities.” He observed that Gordon stood well 'with 


3o8 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


these eminent persons. Though as yet undistinguished 
himself, they treated him with a certain respect, as well as 
with evident liking. The most eminent of them, at least the 
one with the most solidly-established reputation, said in Sir 
Peter’s ear, You may be proud of your nephew Gor¬ 
don ! ” 

“He is not my nephew, only the son of a very distant 
cousin.” 

“ Sorry for that. But he will shed lustre on kinsfolk, 
however distant. Clever fellow, yet popular ; rare combi¬ 
nation—sure to rise." 

Sir Peter suppressed a gulp in the throat. “ Ah, if some 
one as eminent had spoken thus of Kenelm ! ” 

But he was too generous to allow that half-envious sen¬ 
timent to last more than a moment. Why should he not be 
proud of any member of the family who could irradiate the 
antique obscurity of the Chillingly race ? And how agree¬ 
able this clever young man made himself to Sir Peter ! 

The next day Gordon insisted on accompanying him 
to see the latest acquisitions in the British Museum, and 
various other exhibitions, and went at night to the Prince 
of Wales’s Theatre, where Sir Peter was infinitely delighted 
with an admirable little comedy by Mr. Robertson, admir¬ 
ably placed on the stage by Marie Wilton. The day after, 
when Gordon called on him at his hotel, he cleared his 
throat, and thus plunged at once into the communication 
he had hitherto delayed. # 

“ Gordon, my boy, I owe you a debt, and I am now, 
thanks to Kenelm, able to pay it.” 

Gordon gave a little start of surprise, but remained 
silent. 

“ I told your father, shortly after Kenelm was born, that 
I meant to give up my London house and lay by ^looo a 
year for you, in compensation for your chance of succeed¬ 
ing to Exmundham should I have died childless. Well, 
your father did not seem to think much of that promise, and 
went to law with me about certain unquestionable rights of 
mine. How so clever a man could have made such a mis¬ 
take, would puzzle me, if I did not remember that he had a 
quarrelsome temper. Temper is a thing that often domi¬ 
nates cleverness—an uncontrollable thing ; and allowances 
must be made for it. Not being of a quarrelsome temper 
myself (the Chillinglys are a placid race), I did not make 
the aliowq,nce for your fatb-cr’s differing, and (for a ChU 


K EM ELM CLiiLLmCLV. 


309 

lingly) abnormal, constitution. The language and the tone 
of his letter respecting it nettled me. I did not see why, 
thus treated, I should pinch myself to lay by a thousand a 
year. Facilities for buying a property most desirable for 
the possessor of Exmundham presented themselves. I 
bought it with borrowed money, and, though I gave up the 
house in London, I did not lay by the thousand a year.” 

“ My dear Sir Peter, I have always regretted that my- 
poor father was misled—perhaps out of too paternal a care 
for my supposed interests—into that unhappy and fruitless 
litigation, after which no one could doubt that any gener¬ 
ous intentions on your part would be finally abandoned. It 
has been a grateful surprise to me that I have been so kindly 
and cordially received into the family by Kenelm and your¬ 
self. Pray oblige me by dropping all reference to pecun¬ 
iary matters : the idea of compensation to a very distant 
relative for the loss of expectations he had no right to form, 
is too absurd, for me at least, ever to entertain.” 

“ But I am absurd enough to entertain it—though you 
express yourself in a very high-minded way. To come to 
the point, Kenelm is of age, and we have cut off the entail. 
The estate of course remains absolutely with Kenelm to dis¬ 
pose of, as it did before, and we must take it for granted 
that he will marry; at all events he cannot fall into your 
poor father’s error; but whatever Kenelm hereafter does 
with his property, it is nothing to you, and is not to be 
counted upon. Even the title dies with Kenelm if he has 
no son. On resettling the estate, however, sums of money 
have been released which, as I stated before, enable me to 
discharge the debt which, Kenelm heartily agrees with me, 
is due to you.' ^20,000 are now lying at my bankers’ to be 
transferred to yours ; meanwhile, if you will call on my 
solicitor, Mr. Vining, Lincoln’s-inn, you can see the new 
deed, and give to him your receipt for the ^20,000 for 
which he holds my cheque. Stop—stop—stop—I will not 
hear a word—no thanks, they are not due.” 

Here Gordon, who had during this speech uttered 
various brief exclamations, which Sir Peter did not heed, 
caught hold of his kinsman’s hand, and, despite of all strug¬ 
gles, pressed his lips on it. “ I must thank you, I must 
give some vent to my emotions,” cried Gordon. “ This, 
sum, great in itself, is far more to me than you can imagine 
—it opens my career—it assures my future.” 

“ So Kenelm tells me ; he said that sum would be more 


310 


KEMELM CHILLINCLV. 


use to you now ihan ten times the amount twenty years 
hence.” 

“ So it will—it will. And Kenelm consents to this sacri¬ 
fice ? ” 

“ Consents—urges it! ” 

Gordon turned away his face, and Sir Peter resumed : 
“You want to get into Parliament; very natural ambition 
for a clever young fellow. I don’t presume to dictate poli¬ 
tics to you. I hear you are what is called a liberal ; a man 
may be a liberal, I suppose, without being a Jacobin.” 

“I hope so, indeed. For my part, I am anything but a 
violent man.” 

“ Violent, no ! Who ever heard of a violent Chillingly ? 
But I was reading in the newspaper to-day a speech ad¬ 
dressed to some populous audience, in‘which the orator was 
for dividing all the land and all the capital belonging to 
other people among the working class, calmly and quietly, 
without any violence, and deprecating violence ; but saying, 
perhaps very truly, that the people to be robbed might 
not like it, and might offer violence ; in which case woe be¬ 
tide them—it was they who would be guilty of violence— 
and they must take the consequences if they resisted the 
reasonable propositions of himself and his friends ! That, 
I suppose, is among the new ideas with which Kenelm is 
more familiar than I am. Do you entertain those new 
ideas ? ” 

“ Certainly not—I despise the fools who do.” 

“ And you will not abet revolutionary measures if you 
get into Parliament ? ” 

“ My dear Sir Peter, I fear you have heard very false 
reports of my opinions if you put such questions. Listen,” 
and therewith Gordon launched into dissertations very 
clever, very subtle, which committed him to nothing, be¬ 
yond the wisdom of guiding popular opinion into right 
directions ; what might be right directions he did not define, 
he left Sir Peter to guess them. Sir Peter did guess them, 
as Gordon meant he should, to be the directions which he. 
Sir Peter, thought right; and he was satisfied. 

That subject disposed of, Gordon said, with much appar¬ 
ent feeling, “ May I ask you to complete the favors you 
have lavished on me ? I have never seen Exmundham^ 
and the home of the race from which I sprang has a deep 
interest for me. Will you allow me to spend a few days 
with you, and under the shade of your own trees take les- 


CHfLLiNGLV. 


3 *‘ 

sons in political science from one who has evidently reflect' 
ed on it profoundly ? ” 

Profoundly—no—a little—a little, as a mere bystand¬ 
er,” said Sir Peter, modestly, but much flattered. “ Come, 
my dear boy, by all means ; you will have a hearty wel¬ 
come.^ By-the-by, Travers and his handsome daughter 
promised to visit me in about a fortnight ; why not come 
at the same time ? ” 

A sudden flash lit up the young man’s countenance. “ I 
shall be so delighted,” he cried. “ I am but slightly ac¬ 
quainted with Mr. Travers, but I like him much, and Mrs. 
Campion is so well informed.” 

“And what say you to the girl ?” 

“ The girl. Miss Travers. Oh, she is very well in her way. 
But I don’t talk with young ladies more than I can help.” 

“Then you are like your cousin Kcnelm?” 

“I wish I were like him in other things.” 

“No, o«e such oddity in a family is quite enough. But 
chough I would not have you change to a Kenelm, I would 
not change Kenelm for the most perfect model of a son that 
the world can exhibit.” Delivering himself of this burst of 
parental fondness. Sir Peter shook hands with Gordon, and 
walked oif to Mivers, who was to give him luncheon and 
then accompany him to the station. Sir Peter was to return 
to Exmundham by the afternoon express. 

Left alone, Gordon indulged in one of those luxurious 
guesses into the future which form the happiest moments in 
youth, when so ambitious as his. The sum Sir Peter placed 
at his disposal would insure his entrance into Parliament. 
He counted with confidence on early successes there. He 
extended the scope of his views. With such successes he 
might calculate with certainty on a brilliant marriage, aug¬ 
menting his fortune, and confirming his position. He had 
previously fixed his thoughts on Cecilia Travers—I will do 
him the justice to say not from mercenary motives alone, but 
not certainly with the impetuous ardor of youthful love. He 
thought her exactly fitted to be the wife of an eminent public 
man, in person, acquirement, dignified yet popular manners. 
He esteemed her, he liked her, and then her fortune would 
add solidity to his position. In fact, he had that sort of 
rational attachment to Cecilia which wise men, like Lord 
Bacon and Montaigne, would command to another wise man 
seeking a wife. What opportunities of awaking in herself a 
similar, perhaps a warmer, attachment the visit to Exmund- 


jcemelm cmitmcLY. 


it2 

ham would afford ! He had learned when h 6 had called oh 
the Traverses that they were going thither, and hence that 
burst of family sentiment which had procured the invitation 
to himself. 

But he must be cautious; he must hot prematurely 
awaken Travers’s suspicions. He was not as yet a match 
that the squire could approve of for his heiress. And 
though he was ignorant of Sir Peter’s designs on that young 
lady, he was much too prudent to confide his own to a kins¬ 
man of whose discretion he had strong misgivings. It was 
enough for him at present that way was opened for his own 
resolute energies. And cheerfully, though musingly, he 
weighed its obstacles, and divined its goal, as he paced his 
floor with bended head and restless strides, now quick, now 
glow. 

Sir Peter, in the meanwhile, found a very good luncheon 
prepared for him at Mivers’s rooms, which he had all to him¬ 
self, for his host never “spoilt his dinner and insulted his 
breakfast” by that intermediate meal. He remained at his 
desk writing brief notes of business or of pleasure, while Sir 
Peter did justice to lamb cutlets and grilled chicken. But 
he looked up from his task, with raised eyebrows, when Sir 
Peter, after a somewhat discursive account of his visit to the 
Traverses, his admiration of Cecilia, and the adroitness with 
which, acting on his cousin’s hint, he had engaged the family 
to spend a few days at Exmundham, added, “ And, by-the-by, 
I have asked young Gordon to meet them.” 

“ To meet them ; meet Mr. and Miss Travers ! you have ? 
I thought you wished Kenelm to marry Cecilia. I was 
mistaken, you meant Gordon ! ” 

“Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Peter, dropping his knife and 
fork. “ Nonsense I you don’t suppose that Miss Travers pre¬ 
fers him to Kenelm, or that he has the presumption to fancy 
that her father would sanction his addresses.” 

“ I indulge in no suppositions of the sort. I content 
myself with thinking that Gordon is clever, insinuating, 
young ; and it is a very good chance of bettering himself 
that you have thrown in his way. However, it is no affair 
of mine ; and though on the whole I like Kenelm better than 
Gordon, stilt I like Gordon very well, and I have an interest 
in following his career which I can’t say I have in conjectur¬ 
ing what may be Kenelm’s—more likely no career at all.” 

“Mivers, you delight in provoking me ; you do say such 


KeNeLM CHlLLmoLV. 


3*3 


uncomfonable things. But, in the first place, Gordon spoke 
rather slightingly of Miss Travers.” 

“ Ahj indeed ; that’s a bad sign,” muttered Mivers. 

Sir Peter did not hear him, and went on. 

“ And, besides, I feel pretty sure that the dear girl has 
already a regard for Kenelm which allows no room for a 
rival. However, I shall not forget your hint, but keep a 
sharp lookout ; and if I see the young man wants to be too 
sweet on Cecilia, I shall cut short,his visit.” 

“ Give! yourself no trouble in the matter ; it will do no 
good. Marriages are made in heaven. Heaven’s will be 
done. If I can get away, I will run down to you for a day 
or two. Perhaps in that case you can ask Lady Glenalvon. 
I like her, and she likes Kenelm. Have you finished ? I 
see the brougham is at the door, and we have to call at your 
hotel to take up your carpet-bag.” 

Mivers was deliberately sealing his notes while he thus 
spoke. He now rang for his servant, gave orders for their 
delivery, and then followed Sir Peter down-stairs and into 
the brougham. Not a word w^ould he say more about Gor¬ 
don, and Sir Peter shrank from telling him about the ;£’2o,- 
ooo. Chillingly Mivers w^as perhaps the‘last person to whom 
Sir Peter would be tempted to parade an act of generosity. 
Mivers might not unfrequently do a generous act himself, 
provided it was not divulged ; but he had always a sneer for 
the generosity of others. 


CHAPTER II. 

Wandering back towards Moleswich, Kenelm found 
himself a little before sunset on the banks of the garrulous 
brook, almost opposite to the house inhabited by Lily Mor- 
daunt. He stood long and silently by the grassy margin, 
his dark shadow falling over the stream, broken into frag¬ 
ments by the eddy and strife of waves, fresh from their leap 
down the neighboring waterfall. His eyes rested on the 
house and the garden lawn in the front. The upper win¬ 
dows were open. “ I wonder which is hers,” he said to 
himself. At last he caught a glimpse of the gardener, bend¬ 
ing over a flower-border with his watering-pot, and then 
moving slowly through the little shrubbery, no doubt to his 

♦ H 



34 


KE^eLM CHILLtMGLV. 


own cottage. Now the lawn was solitary, save that a couple 
of thrushes dropped suddenly on the sward. 

“Good-evening, sir,” said a voice. “A capital spot for 
trout this.” 

Kenelm turned his head, and beheld on the footpath, just 
behind him, a respectable elderly man, apparently of the 
class of a small retail tradesman, with a fishing-rod in his 
hand and a basket belted to his side. 

“ For trout,” replied Kenelm ; “ I daresay. A strangely 
attractive spot indeed.” 

“ Are you an angler, sir, if I may make bold to inquire ? ” 
asked the elderly man, somewhat perhaps puzzled as to the 
rank of the stranger ; noticing, on the one hand, his dress 
and his mien, on the other, slung to his shoulders, the worn 
and shabby knapsack which Kenelm had carried, at home 
and abroad, the preceding year. 

“ Ay, I am an angler.” 

“ Then this is the best place in the whole stream. Look, 
sir, there is Izaak Walton’s summer-house ; and farther down 
you see that white, neat-looking house. Well, that is my 
house, sir, and I have an apartment which I let to gentle¬ 
men anglers. It is generally occupied throughout the sum¬ 
mer months. I expect every day to have a letter to engage 
it, but it is vacant now. A very nice apartment, sir—sitting- 
room and bedroom.” 

“ Descende cxlo^ et die age tibia," said Kenelm. 

“ Sir ! ” said the elderly man. 

“ I beg you ten thousand pardons. I have had the mis¬ 
fortune to have been at the university, and to have learned a 
little Latin, which sometimes comes bitek very inoppor¬ 
tunely. But, speaking in plain English, what I meant to 
say is this : I invoked the Muse to descend from heaven 
and bring with her—the original says a fife, but I meant—a 
fishing-rod. I should think your apartment would suit me 
exactly ; pray show it to me.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” said the elderly man. 
“ The Muse need not bring a fishing-rod ! we have all sorts 
of tackle at your service, and a boat too, if you care for that. 
The stream hereabouts is so shallow and narrow that a boat 
is of little use till you get farther down.” 

“ I don’t want to get farther down ; but should I want to 
get to the opposite bank without wading across, would the 
boat take me, or is there a bridge ? ” 

“The boat can take you. It is a flat-bottomed punt, and 


KENELm Cf^lLtmcLY. 


315 

there is a bridge too for foot-passengers, just opposite my 
house ; and between this and Moleswich, where the stream 
widens, there is a ferry. The stone bridge for traffic is r,t 
the farther end of the town.” 

“ Good. Let us go at once to your house.” 

The two men walked on. 

“ By-the-by,” said Kenelm as they walked, “do you know 
much of the family who inhabit the pretty cottage on the 
opposite side, which we have just left behind ?” 

“ Mrs. Cameron’s. Yes, of course, avery good lady ; and 
Mr. Melville, the painter. I am sure I ought to know, fov 
he has often lodged with me when he came to visit Mrs. 
Cameron. He recommends my apartment to his friend.s, 
and they are my best lodgers. I like painters, sir, though 
I don’t know much about paintings. They are pleasant 
gentlemen, and easily contented with my humble ro<^f and 
fare.” 

“You are quite right. I don’t know much about paint¬ 
ings myself, but I am inclined to believe that painters, 
judging not from what I have seen of them, for \ have not 
a single acquaintance among them personally, but from 
what I have read of their lives, are, as a general rule, not 
only pleasant but noble gentlemen. They form within 
themselves desires to beautify or exalt commonplace things, 
and they can only accomplish their desires by a constant 
study of what is beautiful and what is exalted. A man con¬ 
stantly so engaged ought to be a verv noble gentleman, 
even though he may be the son of a shoeblack. And living 
in a higher world than we do, I can conceive that he is, as 
you say, very well contented with humble roof and fare in 
the world we inhabit.” 

“ Exactly, sir ; I see—I see now, though you put it in a 
way that never struck me before.” 

“ And yet,” said Kenelm, looking benignly at the speaker, 
“ you seem to me a well-educated and intelligent man ; re¬ 
flective on things in general, without being unmindful of 
your interests in particular, especially when you have lodg¬ 
ings to let. Do not be offended. That sort of man'is not 
perhaps born to be a painter, but I respect him highly. The 
world, sir, requires the vast majority of its inhabitants to live 
in it—to live by it. ‘ Each for himself, and God for us all’ 
The greatest happiness of the greatest number is best se 
cured by a prudent consideration for Number One.” 

Somewhat to Kenelm’s surprise (allowing that he had 


tCEMELk cHiLliMgLV. 


now learned enough of life to be occasionally surprised), the 
elderly man here made a dead halt, stretched out his hand 
cordially, and cried “ Hear, hear! I see that, like me, you 
are a decided democrat.” 

“ Democrat! Pray, may I ask, not why vou are one— 
that would be a liberty, and democrats resent any liberty 
taken with themselves—but why you suppose I am ? ” 

“ You spoke of the greatest happiness of the greatest 
number. That is a democratic sentiment, surely ! Besides, 
did not you say, sir, that painters—painters, sir, painters, 
even if they were the sons of shoeblacks, were the true gen¬ 
tlemen—the true noblemen ? ” 

“ I did not say that exactly, to the disparagement of other 
gentlemen and nobles. But if I did, what then ?” 

“ Sir, I agree with you. I despise rank, I despise dukes, 
and earls, and aristocrats. ‘An honest man’s the noblest 
work of God.’ Some poet says that. I think Shakspeare. 
Wonderful man, Shakspeare. A tradesman’s son—butcher, 
I believe. Eh ! My uncle was a butcher, and I might have 
been an alderman. I go along with you heartily, heartily. 
I am a'democrat, every inch of me. Shake hands, sir—shake 
hands ; we are all equals. ‘ Each for himself, and God for 
us all.’ ” 

“ I have no objection to shake hands,” said Kenelm ; 
“but don’t let me owe your condescension to false pretences. 
Though we are all equal before the law, except the rich 
man, who has little chance of justice as against a poor man 
when submitted to an English jury, yet I utterly deny that 
any two men you select can be equals. One must beat the 
other in something; and when one man beats another, 
democracy ceases and aristocracy begins.” 

“ Aristocracy ! I don’t see that. What do you mean by 
aristocracy ? ” 

The ascendency of the better man. In a rude State tlie 
better man is the stronger ; in a corrupt State, perhaps the 
more roguish ; in modern republics the jobbers get tlic 
money and the lawyers get the power. In well-ordered 
States alone aristocracy appears at its genuine worth: the 
better man in birth, because respect for-ancestry secures a 
higher standard of honor ; the better man in wealth, because 
of the immense uses to enterprise, energy, and the fine arts, 
which rich men must be if they follow their own inclina¬ 
tions ; the better man in character,the better man inability, 
for reasons too obvious to define ; and these two last wiU 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


317 


Deat the others in the government of the State, if the State 
be flourishing and free. All these four classes of better men 
constitute true aristocracy ; and when a better government 
than a true aristocracy shall be devised by the wit of man, 
we shall not be far off from the Millennium and the reign 
of saints. But here we are at the house—yours, is it not ? 
I like the look of it extremely.” 

The elderly man now entered the little porch, over which 
clambered honeysuckle and ivy intertwined, and ushered 
Kenelm into a pleasant parlor, with a bay window, and an 
equally pleasant bedroom behind it. 

^‘Will it do, sir?” 

“Perfectly. I take it from this moment. My knapsack 
contains all I shall need for the night. There is a port¬ 
manteau of mine at Mr. Somers’s shop, which can be sent 
here in the morning.” 

“ But we have not settled about the terms,” said the 
elderly man, beginning to feel rather doubtful whether he 
ought thus to have installed in his home a stalwart pedes¬ 
trian of whom he knew nothing, and who, though talking 
glibly enough on other things, had preserved an ominous 
silence on the subject of payment. 

“ Terms ? true. Name them.” 

“ Including board ?” 

“ Certainly. Chameleons live on air, Democrats on 
wind-bags. I have a more vulgar appetite, and require 
mutton ! ” 

“ Meat is very dear nowadays,” said the elderly man, 
“ and I am afraid, for board and lodging, I cannot charge 
you. less than ^3 35-.—say 3^ a week. My lodgers usually 
pay a week in advance.” 

“ Agreed,” said Kenelm, extracting three sovereigns from 
his purse. “ I have dined already—I want nothing more 
this evening ; let me detain you no further. Be kind 
enough to shut the door after you.” 

When he was alone, Kenelm seated himself in the recess 
of the bay window, against the casement, and looked forth 
intently. Yes, he was right—he could see from thence the 
home of Lily. Not, indeed, more than a white gleam of the 
house through the interstices of trees and shrubs—but the 
gentle lawn sloping to the brook, with the great willow at 
the end dipping its boughs into the water and shutting out 
all view beyond itself by its bower of tender leaves. The 
jroung man bent his face on liis hands and mused dreamily; 


3i8 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


the evening deepened, the stars came forth, the rays of the 
moon now peered aslant through the arching dips of the 
willow, silvering their way as they stole to the waves below. 

“ Shall I bring lights, sir ? or do you prefer a lamp or 
candles ? ” asked a voice behind ; the voice of the elderly 
man’s wife. “ Do you like the shutters closed ? ” 

The questions startled the dreamer. They seemed 
mocking his own old mockings on the romance of love. 
Lamp or candles, practical lights for prosaic eyes, and 
shutters closed against moon and stars ! 

“ Thank you, ma’am, not yet,” he said ; and rising quietly 
he placed his hand on the window-sill, swung himself 
through the open casement, and passed slowly along the 
margin of the rivulet by a path chequered alternately with 
shade and starlight; the moon yet more slowly rising above 
the willows and lengthening its track along the wavelets. 


CHAPTER III. 

Though Kenelm did not think it necessary at present to 
report to his parents, or his London acquaintances, his re¬ 
cent movements and his present resting-place, it never 
entered into his head to lurk perdu in the immediate vicinity 
of Lily’s house and seek opportunities of meeting her clan¬ 
destinely. He walked to Mrs. Braefield’s the next morning, 
found her at home, and said, in rather a more off-hand 
manner than was habitual to him, I have hired a lodging 
in your neighborhood, on the banks of the brook, for the 
sake of its trout-fishing. So you will allow me to call on 
you sometimes, and one of these days I hope you will give 
me the dinner that I so unceremoniously rejected some days 
ago. I was then summoned away suddenly, much against 
my will.” 

“ Yes ; my husband said that you shot off from him with 
a wild exclamation about duty.” 

“ Quite true ; my reason, and I may say my conscience, 
were greatly perplexed upon a matter extremely important 
and altogether new to me. I went to Oxford—the place 
above all others in which questions of reason and conscience 
are most deeply considered, and perhaps least satisfactorily 
golyed. Relieved in my mind by my visit to a distinguished 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


319 


ornament of that university, I felt I might indulge in a 
summer holiday, and here I am.” 

“ Ah ! I understand. You had religious doubts—thought 
perhaps of turning Roman Catholic. I hope you are not 
going to do so ? ” 

“ My doubts were not necessarily of a religious nature. 
Pagans have entertained them.” 

“ Whatever they were, I am pleased to see they did not 
prevent your return,” said Mrs. Braefield, graciously. “ But 
where have you found a lodging—why not have come to us ? 
My husband would have been scarcely less glad than myself 
to receive you.” 

“ You say that so sincerely, and so cordially, that to 
answer by a brief ‘ I thank you ’ seems rigid and heartless. 
But there are times in life when one yearns to be alone—to 
commune with one’s own heart, and, if possible, be still ; I 
am in one of those moody times. Bear with me.” 

Mrs. Braefield looked at him with affectionate, kindly in¬ 
terest. She had gone before him through the solitary land 
of young romance. She remembered her dreamy, dangerous 
girlhood, when she too had yearned to be alone. 

“ Bear with you—yes, indeed. I wish, Mr. Chillingly, 
that I were your sister, and that you would confide in me. 
Something troubles you.” 

“Troubles me—no. My thoughts are happy ones, and 
they may sometimes perplex me, but they do not trouble.” 
Kenelm said this very softly ; and in the warmer light of his 
musing eyes, the sweeter play of his tranquil smile, there was 
an expression which did not belie his words. 

“ You have not told me where you have found a lodging,” 
said Mrs. Braefield, somewhat abruptly. 

“ Did I not ?” replied Kenelm, with an unconscious start, 
as from an abstracted reverie. “ With no undistinguished 
host, I presume, for when I asked him this morning for the 
right address of his cottag^ in order to direct such luggage 
as I have to be sent there, he gave me his card with a grand 
air, saying, ‘ I am pretty well known at Moleswich, by and 
beyond it.’ I have not yet looked at his card. Oh, here it 
is—‘Algernon Sidney Gale Jones, Cromwell Lodge.’ You 
laugh. What do you know of him ?” 

“ I wish my husband were here ; he would tell you more 
about him. Mr. Jones is quite a character.” 

“ So I perceive.” 

A great radical—very talkative and troublesome at th^ 


320 


KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


vestry ; but our vicar, Mr. Emlyn, says there is no real harm 
in him—that his bark is worse than his bite—and that his 
republican or radical notions must be laid to the doors of his 
godfathers ! In addition to his name of Jones, he was un ¬ 
happily christened Gale ; Gale Jones being a noted radical 
orator at the time of his birth. And I suppose Algernon 
Sidney was prefixed to Gale in ordor to devote the new-born 
more emphatically to republican principles.” 

“ Naturally, therefore, Algernon Sidney Gale Jones bap¬ 
tizes his house Cromwell Lodge, seeing that Algernon Sidney 
held the Protectorate in especial abhorrence, and that the 
original Gale Jones, if an honest radical, must have done the 
same, considering what rough usage the advocates of par¬ 
liamentary reform met with at the hands of his Highness. 
But we must be indulgent to men who have been unfortu¬ 
nately christened before they had any choice of the names 
that were to rule their fate. I myself should have been less 
whimsical had I not been named after a Kenelm who believed 
in sympathetic powders. Apart from his political doctrines, 
I like my landlord—he keeps his wife in excellent order. 
She seems frightened at the sound of her own footsteps, and 
glides to and fro, a pallid image of submissive womanliood 
in list slippers.” 

“ Great recommendations certainly, and Cromwell Lodge 
is very prettily situated. By-the-by, it is very near Mrs. 
Cameron’s.” 

“Now I think of it, so it is,” said Kenelm, innocently. 

Ah ! my friend Kenelm, enemy of shams, and truth- 
teller par excellence^ what hast thou come to ! How are the 
mighty fallen ! “ Since you say you will dine with us, sup¬ 

pose we fix the day after to-morrow, and I will ask Mrs. 
Cameron and Lily.” 

“ The day after to-morrow—I shall be delighted.” 

“ An early hour ? ” 

“The earlier the better.” 

“ Is six o’clock too early?” 

“ Too early—certainly not—on the contrary- Good- 

day—I must now go to Mrs. Somers: she has charge of my 
portmanteau.” 

Then Kenelm rose. 

“ Poor dear Lily! ” said Mrs. Braefield ; “ I wish she were 
less of a child.” 

Kenelm reseated himself. 

“ Is she a child ? I don’t think she is actually a child,” 



KEN EL M CHLL L TNGL Y. 


321 


“ Not in years ; she is between seventeen and eighteen ; 
but my husband says that she is too childish to talk to, and 
always tells me to take her off his hands ; he would rather 
talk with Mrs Cameron.” 

“Indeed!” 

“ Still, I find something in her.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Not exactly childish, nor quite womanish.” 

“ What then ? ” 

“ I can’t exactly define. But you know what Mr. Melville 
and Mrs. Cameron call her, as a pet name ?” 

“No.” 

“Fairy ! Fairies have no age ; fairy is neither child nor 
woman.” 

“ Fairy. She is called Fairy by those who know her best ? 
Fairy 1 ” 

“And she believes in fairies.” 

“ Does she ?—so do I. Pardon me, I must be off. The 
day after to-morrow—six o’clock.” 

“Wait one moment,” said Elsie, going to her writing- 
table. “ Since you pass Grasmere on your way home, will 
you kindly leave this note ? ” 

“ I thought Grasmere was a lake in the north ?” 

“ Yes ; but Mr. Melville chose to call the cottage by the 
name of the lake. I think the first picture he ever sold was 
a view of Wordsworth’s house there. Here is my note to 
ask Mrs. Cameron to meet you ; but if you object to be my 
messenger-” 

“ Object! my dear Mrs. Braefield. As you say, I pass 
close by the cottage.” 


CHAPTER IV 

Kenelm went with somewhat rapid pace from Mrs. Brae- 
field’s to the shop in the High Street, kept by Will Somers. 
Jessie was behind the counter, which was thronged with 
customers. Kenelm gave her a brief direction about his 
portmanteau, and then passed into the back parlor, where her 
husband was employed on his baskets—with the baby’s cradle 
in the corner, and its grandmother rocking it mechanically, 
as she read a wonderful missionary tract full of tales of 

•4* 



322 


KENELM CHILLINGL K 


miraculous conversions: into what sort of Christians we 
will not pause to inquire. 

“And so you are happy, Will?” said Kenelm, seating 
himself between the basket-maker and the infant ; the dear 
old mother beside him, reading the tract which linked her 
dreams of life eternal with life just opening in the cradle 
that she rocked. He not happy! How he pitied the man 
who could ask such a question ! 

“ Happy, sir ! I should think so, indeed. There is not 
a night on which Jessie and I, and mother too, do not pray 
that some day or other you may be as happy. By-and-by 
the baby will learn to pray ‘ God bless papa, and mamma, 
grandmamma, and Mr. Chillingly.’ ” 

“ There is some one else much more deserving of prayers 
than I, though needing them less. You will know some 
day—pass it by now. To return to the point; you are 
happy ; if I asked why, would you not say, ‘ Because I have 
married the girl I love, and have never repented ’ ? ” 

“ Well, sir, that is about it; though, begging your par¬ 
don, I think it could be put more prettily somehow.” 

“ You are right there. But perhaps love and happiness 
never yet found any words that could fitly express them. 
Good-bye, for the present.” 

Ah ! if it were as mere materialists, or as many middle- 
aged or elderly folks, who if materialists are so without 
knowing it, unreflectingly say, “ The main element of hap¬ 
piness is bodily or animal health and strength,” that ques¬ 
tion which Chillingly put would appear a very unmeaning or 
a very insulting one addressed to a pale cripple, who, how¬ 
ever improved of late in health, would still be sickly and 
ailing all his life,—put, too, by a man of the rarest conform¬ 
ation of physical powers that nature can adapt to physical 
enjoyment—a man who, since the age in which memory 
commences, had never known what it was to be unwell, 
who could scarcely understand you if you talked of a finger- 
ache, and whom those refinements of mental culture which 
multiply the delights of the senses had endowed with the 
most exquisite conceptions of such happiness as mere nature 
and its instincts can give ! But Will did not think the ques¬ 
tion unmeaning or insulting. He, the poor cripple, felt a 
vast superiority on the scale of joyous being over the young 
Hercules, well-born, cultured, and wealthy, who could know 
so little of happiness as to ask the crippled basket-maker if 
he were happy—he, blessed husband and father! 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


323 


CHAPTER V. 

Lily was seated on the grass under a chestnut-tree on 
the lawn. A white cat, not long emerged from kittenhood, 
curled itself by her side. On her lap was an open volume, 
which she was reading with the greatest delight. 

Mrs. Cameron came from the house, looked round, per¬ 
ceived the girl, and approached ; and either she moved so 
gently, or Lily was so absorbed in her book, that the latter 
was not aware of her presence till she felt a light hand on 
her shoulder, and, looking up, recognized her aunt’s gentle 
face. 

“ Ah ! Fairy, Fairy, that silly book, when you ought to 
be at your French verbs. What will your guardian say 
when he comes and finds you have so wasted time ? ” 

“ He will say that fairies never waste their time ; and he 
will scold you for saying so.” Therewith Lily threw down 
the book, sprang up to her feet, wound her arm round Mrs. 
Cameron’s neck, and kissed her fondly. “ There ! is that 
wasting time ? I love you so, aunty. In a day like this I 
think I love everybody and everything! ” As she said this, 
she drew up her lithe form, looked into the blue sky, and 
with parted lips seemed to drink in air and sunshine. Then 
she woke up the dozing cat, and began chasing it round the 
lawn. 

Mrs. Cameron stood still, regarding her with moistened 
eyes. Just at that moment Kenelm entered through the 
garden gate. He, too, stood still, his eyes fixed on the 
undulating movements of Fairy’s exquisite form. She had 
arrested her favorite, and was now at play with it, shaking 
off her straw hat, and drawing the ribbon attached to it 
tantalizingly along the smooth grass. Her rich hair, thus 
released and disheveled by the exercise, fell partly over her 
face in wavy ringlets ; and her musical laugh and words of 
sportive endearment sounded on Kenelm’s ear more joy¬ 
ously than the trill of the skylark, more sweetly than the 
coo of the ringdove. 

He approached towards Mrs. Cameron. Lily turned 
suddenly and saw him. Instinctively she smoothed back 


KENI-.r.M CrnLLlXGL K 


her loosened tresses, replaced the straw hat, and came up 
demurely to his side just as he accosted her aunt. 

“ Pardon my intrusion, Mrs. Cameron. I am the bearer 
of this note from Mrs. Braefield.” While the aunt read the 
note, he turned to the niece. 

“ You promised to show me the picture. Miss Mordaunt.” 

“ But that was a long time ago.” 

Too long to expect a lady’s promise to be kept ?” 

Lily seemed to ponder that question, and hesitated be¬ 
fore she answered. 

“ I will show you the picture. I don’t think I ever broke 
a promise yet, but I shall be more careful how I make one 
in future.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ Because you did not value mine when I made it, and 
that hurt me.” Lily lifted up her head with a bewitching 
stateliness, and added gravely, “ I was offended.” 

“ Mrs. Braefield is very kind,” said Mrs. Cameron ; “ she 
asks us to dine the day after to-morrow. You would like to 
go, Lily ? ” 

“ All grown-up people, I suppose ? No, thank you, 
dear aunt. You go alone : I would rather stay at home. 
May I have little Clemmy to play with ? She will bring 
Juba, and Blanche is very partial to Juba, though she does 
scratch him.” 

“ Very well, my dear, you shall have your playmate, and 
I will go by myself.” 

Kenelm stood aghast. “You will not go. Miss Mor- 
daunt ? Mrs. Braefield will be so disappointed. And if yom 
don’t go, whom shall I have to talk to ? I don’t like grown¬ 
up people better than you do.” 

“ You are going ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And if I go you will talk to me ? I am afraid of Mr. 
Braefield. He is so wise.” 

“ I will save you from him, and will not utter a grain of 
wisdom.” 

“ Aunty, I will go.” 

Here Lily made a bound and caught up Blanche, who, 
taking her kisses resignedly, stared with evident curiosity 
upon Kenelm. 

Here a bell within the house rung the announcement of 
luncheon. Mrs. Cameron invited Kenelm to partake of that 
meal. He felt as Romulus might have felt when first iiv 


KEMELM CHILLINGLY, 


325 

vited to taste the ambrosia of the gods. Yet certainly that 
luncheon was not such as might have pleased Kenelm Chil 
lingly in the early days of The Temperance Hotel. But 
somehow or other of late he had lost appetite ; and on this 
occasion a very modest share of a very slender dish of 
chicken fricasseed, and a few cherries daintily arranged on 
vine-leaves, which Lily selected for him, contented him—as 
probably a very little ambrosia contented Romulus while 
feasting his eyes on Hebe. 

Luncheon over, while Mrs. Cameron wrote her reply to 
Elsie, Kenelm was conducted byLily into her own room, 
in vulgar parlance \\qy boudoir, though it did not look as if any 
one ever bouder'd there. It was exquisitely pretty—pretty 
not as a woman’s, but a child’s dream of the own own room 
she would like to have—wondrously neat and cool and 
pure-looking; a trellis paper, the trellis gay with roses and 
woodbine and birds and butterflies ; draperies of muslin, 
festooned with dainty tassels and ribbons ; a dwarf book¬ 
case, that seemed well stored, at least as to bindings ; a 
dainty little writing-table in French marqueterie —looking too 
fresh and spotless to have known hard service. The case¬ 
ment was open, and in keeping with the trellis paper ; 
woodbine and roses from without encroached on the win¬ 
dow-sides, gently stirred by the faint summer breeze, and 
wafting sweet odors into the little room. Kenelm went to 
the window, and glanced on the view beyond. “ I was 
right,” he said to himself ; “ I divined it.” But though he 
spoke in a low inward whisper, Lily, who had watched his 
movements in surprise, overheard. 

“ You divined it. Divined what ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing ; I was but talking to myself.” 

“ Tell me what you divined—I insist upon it ! ” and 
Fairy petulantly stamped her tiny foot on the floor. 

“ Do you ? Then I obey. I have taken a lodging for a 
short time on the other side of the brook—Cromwell Lodge 
—and, seeing your house as I passed, I divined that your 
room was in this part of it. How soft here is the view of 
the water ! Ah ! yonder is Izaak Walton’s summer-house.” 

“ Don’t talk about Izaak Walton, or I shall quarrel with 
you, as I did with Lion when he wanted me to like that 
cruel book.” 

“ Who is Lion ? ” 

“ Lion—of course, my guardian. I called him Lion 


KENELM cnil.LTXGLV. 


326 

when I was a little child. It was on seeing in one of his 
books a print of a lion playing with a little child.” 

“Ah! I know the design well,” said Kenelm, with a 
slight sigh. “ It is from an antique Greek gem. It is not 
the lion that plays with the child, it is the child that mas¬ 
ters the lion, and the Greeks called the child ‘ Love/ ” 

This idea seemed beyond Lily’s perfect comprehension. 
She paused before she answered, with the 7iaivetc of a child 
six years old : 

“ I see now why I mastered Blanche, who will not make 
friends with any one else : I love Blanche. Ah, that re¬ 
minds me—come and look at the picture.” 

She went to the wall over the writing-table, drew a silk 
curtain aside from a small painting in a dainty velvet frame¬ 
work, and, pointing to it, cried with triumph, “ Look there! 
is it not beautiful ? ” 

Kenelm had been prepared to see a landscape, or a 
group, or anything but what he did see—it was the portrait 
of Blanche when a kitten. 

Little elevated though the subject was, it was treated 
with graceful fancy. The kitten had evidently ceased from 
playing with the cotton-reel that lay between her paws, and 
was fixing her gaze intent on a bullfinch that had lighted on 
a spray within her reach. 

“You understand,” said Lily, placing her hand on his 
arm and drawing him towards what she thought the best 
light for the picture. “ It is Blanche’s first sight of a bird. 
Look well at her face ; don’t you see a sudden surprise— 
half joy, half fear ? She ceases to play with the reel. Her 
intellect—or, as Mr. Braefield would say, ‘her instinct’—is 
for the first time aroused. From that moment Blanche was 
no longer a mere kitten. And it required, oh, the most 
careful education to teach her not to kill the poor little 
birds. She never does now, but I had such trouble with her.” 

“ I cannot say honestly that I do see all that you do in 
the picture ; but it seems to me very simply painted, and 
was, no doubt, a striking likeness of Blanche at that early 
age.” 

“ So it was. Lion drew the first sketch from life with 
his pencil ; and when he saw how pleased I was with it—he 
was so good—he put it on canvas, and let me sit by him 
while he painted it. Then he took it away, and brought it 
back finished and framed as you see, last May, a present for 
my birthday.” 


krneLM chillingly. 


32^ 


“You were born in May—with the flowers.” 

“The best of all the flowers are born before May— 
Wolets.” 

“ But they are born in the shade, and cling to it. Surely, 
as a child of May, you love the sun ! ” 

“ I love the sun—it is never too bright nor too warm for 
me. But I don’t think that, though born in May, I was 
born in sunlight. I feel more like my own native self when I 
creep into the shade and sit down alone. I can weep then.” 

As she thus shyly ended, the character of her whole 
countenance was changed—its infantine mirthfulness was 
gone ; a grave, thoughtful, even a sad expression settled on 
the tender eyes and the tremulous lips. 

Kenelm was so touched that words failed him, and there 
was silence for some moments between the two. At length 
Kenelm said slowly : 

“You say your own native self. Do you then feel, as I 
often do, that there is a second, possibly a native., self, deep 
hid beneath the self—not merely what we show to the world 
in common (that may be merely a mask)—but the self that 
we ordinarily accept even when in solitude as our own ; an 
inner innermost self ; oh, so different and so rarely com¬ 
ing forth from its hiding-place ; asserting its right of sov¬ 
ereignty, and putting out the other self, as the sun puts out 
a star ? ” 

Had Kenelm thus spoken to a clever man of the world 
—to a Chillingly Mivers—to a Chillingly Gordon— 
certainly would not have understood him. But to such 
men he never would have thus spoken. He had a vague 
hope that this childlike girl, despite so much of childlike 
talk, would understand him ; and she did, at once. 

Advancing close to him, again laying her hand on his 
arm, and looking up towards his bended face with startled 
wondering eyes, no longer sad, yet not mirthful : 

“How true! You have felt that too ? Where A that in¬ 
nermost self, so deep down—so deep ; yet when it does 
come forth, so much higher—higher—immeasurably higher 
than one’s everyday self? It does not tame the butterflies 
—it longs to get to the stars. And then—and then—ah, 
how soon it fades back again ! You have felt that. Does 
it not puzzle you ? ” 

“ Very much.” 

“ Are there no wise books about it that help to ex¬ 
plain?” 


328 


KEmLM CniLLWCLV. 


“ No wise books in my very limited reading even hint 
at the puzzle. I fancy that it is one of those insoluble 
questions that rest between the infant and his Maker. 
Mind and soul are not the same things, and what you and I 
call ‘wise men ’ are always confounding the two-” 

Fortunately for all parties—especially the reader ; for 
Kenelm had here got on the back of one of his most cher¬ 
ished hobbies—the distinction between psychology and 
metaphysics—soul and mind scientifically or logically con¬ 
sidered—Mrs. Cameron here entered the room and asked 
him how he liked the picture. 

“Very much. I am no great judge of the art. But it 
pleased me at once, and, now that Miss Mordaunt has in¬ 
terpreted the intention of the painter, I admire it yet more.” 

“ Lily chooses to interpret his intention in her own way, 
and insists that Blanche’s expression of countenance con¬ 
veys an idea of her capacity to restrain her destructive in¬ 
stinct and be taught to believe that it is wrong to kill birds 
for mere sport. For food she need not kill them, seeing 
that Lily takes care that she has plenty to eat. But I don’t 
think Mr. Melville had the slightest suspicion that he had 
indicated that capacity in his picture.” 

“ He must have done so, whether he suspected it or 
not,” said Lily, positively; “otherwise he would not be 
truthful.” 

“ Why not truthful ? ” asked Kenelm. 

“Don’t you see ? If you were called upon to describe 
truthfully the character of any little child, would you only 
speak of such naughty impulses as all children have in 
common, and not even hint at the capacity to be made 
better ? ” 

“Admirably put!” said Kenelm. “There is no doubt 
that a much fiercer animal than a cat—a tiger, for instance, 
or a conquering hero—may be taught to live on the kindest 
possible terms with the creatures on which it was its natural 
instinct to prey.” 

“Yes -yes ; hear that, aunty! You remember the Hap¬ 
py Family that we saw, eight years ago, at Moleswich Fair, 
with a cat not half so nice as Blanche allowing a mouse to 
bite her ear? Well, then, would Lion not have been shame¬ 
fully false to Blanche if Lion had not-” 

Lily paused and looked half shyly, half archly, at Ken¬ 
elm, then added, in slow, deep-drawn tones—“given a 
glimpse of her innermost self ?” 


KEMELM CtllLLWGLY. 


“Innermost self!” repeated Mrs. Cameron, perplexed, 
and laughing gently. 

Lily stole nearer to Kenelm, and whispered : 

“ Is not one’s innermost self one’s best self?” 

Kenelm smiled approvingly. The fairy was rapidly 
deepening her spell upon him. If Lily had been his sister, 
his betrothed, his wife, how fondly he would have kissed 
her ! She had expressed a thought over which he had 
often inaudibly brooded, and she had clothed it with all the 
charm of her own infantine fancy and womanlike tender¬ 
ness ! Goethe has said somewhere, or is reported to have 
said, “ There is something in every man’s heart, that, if you 
knew it, would make you hate him.” What Goethe said, 
still more what Goethe is reported to have said, is never to 
be taken quite literally. No comprehensive genius—genius 
at once poet and thinker—ever can be so taken. The sun 
shines on a dunghill. But the sun has no predilection for 
a dunghill. It only comprehends a dunghill as it does 
a rose. Still, Kenelm had always regarded that loose ray 
from Goethe’s prodigal orb with an abhorrence most un- 
philosophical for a philosopher so young as generally to 
take upon oath any words of so great a master. Kenelm 
thought that the root of all private benevolence, of all en¬ 
lightened advance in social reform, lay in the adverse theo¬ 
rem—that in every man’s nature there lies a something 
that, could we get at it, cleanse it, polish it, render it visibly 
clear to our eyes, would make us love him. And in this 
spontaneous, uncultured sympathy with the result of so 
many laborious struggles of his own scholastic intellect 
against the dogma of the German giant, he felt as if he had 
found a younger—true, but, oh, how much more subduing, 
because so much younger—sister of his own man’s soul. 

Then came, so strongly, the sense of her sympathy with' 
his own strange innermost self which a man will never feel 
more than once in his life with a daughter of Eve, that he 
dared not trust himself to speak. He somewhat hurried 
his leave-taking. 

Passing in the rear of the garden towards the bridge 
which led to his lodging, he found on the opposite bank, at 
the other end of the bridge, Mr. Algernon Sidney Gale 
Jones, peacefully angling for trout. 

“Will you not try "the stream to-day, sir? Take my 
rod.” 

Kenelm remembered that Idly had called Isaak Walton’s 


k^EiVELM CnrLLir^GLY. 


book “a cruel one,” and, shaking his head gently, went his 
way into the house. There he seated himself silently by 
the window, and looked towards the grassy lawn and the 
dipping willows, and the gleam of the white walls through 
the girdling trees, as he had looked the eve before. 

“Ah!” he murmured at last, “if, as I hold, a man but 
tolerably good does good unconsciously merely by the act 
of living—if he can no more traverse his way from the cra¬ 
dle to the grave, without letting fall, as he passes, the germ's 
of strength, fertility, and beauty, than can a reckless wind 
or a vagrant bird, which, where it passes, leaves behind it 
the oak, the cornsheaf, or the flower—ah, if that be so, how 
tenfold the good must be, if the man find the gentler and 
purer duplicate of his own being in that mysterious, unde- 
finable union which Shakespeares and day-laborers equally 
agree to call love ; which Newton never recognizes, and 
which Descartes (his only rival in the realms of thought at 
once severe and imaginative) reduces into links of early 
association, explaining that he loved women who squinted 
because, when he was a boy, a girl with that infirmity 
squinted at him from the other side of his father’s garden- 
wall ! Ah ! be this union between man and woman what it 
may ; if it be really love—really the bond which embraces 
the innermost and bettermost self of both—how, daily, 
hourly, momently, should we bless God for having made it 
so easy to be happy and to be good ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

The dinner-party at Mr. Braefield’s was not quite so 
small as Kenelm had anticipated. When the merchant 
heard from his wife that Kenelm was coming, he thought it 
would be but civil to the young gentleman to invite a few 
other persons to meet him. 

“You see, my dear,” he said to Elsie, “Mrs. Cameron 
is a very good, simple sort of woman, but not particularly 
amusing ; and Lily, though a pretty girl, is so exceedingly 
childish. We owe much, my sweet Elsie, to this Mr. Chil¬ 
lingly ”—here there was a deep tone of feeling in his voice 
and look—“ and we must make it as pleasant for him as we 
can. I will bring down my friend Sir Thomas, and you ask 



kekelm chillingL V. 


33 ^ 

Mr. Emlyn and his wife. Sir Thomas is a very sensiblf 
man, and Emlyn a very learned one. So Mr. Chillingly 
will find people worth talking to. By-the-by, when I go to 
town I will send down a haunch of venison from Groves’.” 

So when Kenelm arrived, a little before six o’clock, he 
found in the drawing-room the Rev. Charles Emlyn, vicar 
of Moleswich Proper, with his spouse, and a portly middle- 
aged man, to whom, as Sir Thomas Pratt, Kenelm was in¬ 
troduced. Sir Thomas was an eminent city banker. The 
ceremonies of introduction over, Kenelm stole to Elsie’s side. 

“ I thought I was to meet Mrs. Cameron. I don’t see 
her.*’ 

“She will be here presently. It looks as if it might rain, 
and I have sent the carriage for her and Lily. Ah, here 
they are ! ” 

Mrs. Cameron entered, clothed in black silk. She al¬ 
ways wore black ; and behind her came Lily, in the spotless 
color that became her name ; no ornament, save a slender 
gold chain to which was appended a simple locket, and a 
single blush-rose in her hair. She looked wonderfully 
lovely ; and with that loveliness there was a certain nameless 
air of distinction, possibly owing to delicacy of form and 
coloring; possibly to a certain grace of carriage, which was 
not without a something of pride. 

Mr. Braefield, who was a very punctual man, made a 
sign to his servant, and in another moment or so dinner was 
announced. Sir Thomas, of course, took in the hostess ; Mr. 
Braefield, the vicar’s wife (she was a dean’s daughter); 
Kenelm, Mrs. Cameron ; and the vicar, Lily. 

On seating themselves at the table, Kenelm was on the 
left hand, next to the hostess, and separated from Lily by 
Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Emlyn ; and when the vicar had 
said grace, Lily glanced behind his back and her aunt’s at 
Kenelm (who did the same thing), making at him what the 
French call a moue. The pledge to her had been broken. 
She was between two men very much* grown up—the vicar 
and the host. Kenelm returned the inoue with a mournful 
smile and an involuntary shrug. 

All were silent till, after his soup and his first glass of 
sherry. Sir Thomas began : 

“ I think, Mr. Chillingly, we have met before, though I 
had not the honor then of making your acquaintance.” Sir 
Thomas paused before he added, “ Not long ago ; the last 
State ball at Buckingham Palace.” 


kEt^^ELM chillingly. 


33 ^ 


Kenelm bent his head acquiescingly. He had been at that 
ball. 

“You were talking with a very charming woman—a friend 
of mine—Lady Glenalvon,” 

(Sir Thomas was Lady Glenalvon’s banker.) 

“ I remember perfectly," said Kenelm. “ We were 
seated in the picture-gallery. You came to speak to Lady 
Glenalvon, and I yielded to you my place on the settee." 

“ Quite true ; and I think you Joined a young lady— 
very handsome—the great heiress. Miss Travers." 

Kenelm again bowed, and, turning away as politely as 
he could, addressed himself to Mrs. Cameron. Sir Thomas, 
satisfied that he had impressed on his audience the facts of 
his friendship with Lady Glenalvon and his attendance at 
the court ball, now directed his conversational powers to¬ 
wards the vicar, who, utterly foiled in the attempt to draw out 
Lily, met the baronet’s advances with the ardor of a talker 
too long suppressed. Kenelm continued, unmolested, to 
ripen his acquaintance wdth Mrs. Cameron. She did not, 
however, seem to lend a very attentive ear to his prelimi¬ 
nary commonplace remarks about scenery or weather, but 
at his first pause said : 

“ Sir Thomas spoke about a Miss Travers : is she related 
to a gentleman who was once in the Guards—Leopold 
Traver-s ? ” 

“ She is his daughter. Did you ever know Leopold 
Travers ? ” 

“ I have heard him mentioned by friends of mine long ago 
—long ago,” replied Mrs. Cameron, with a sort of weary lan¬ 
guor, not unwonted, in her voice and manner, and then, as 
if dismissing the bygone reminiscence from her thoughts, 
changed the subject. 

“ Lily tells me, Mr. Chillingly, that you said you were 
staying at Mr. Jones’s, Cromwell Lodge. I hope you are 
made comfortable there." 

“Very. The situation is singularly pleasant." 

“Yes, it is considered the prettiest spot on the brook- 
side, and used to be a favorite resort for anglers ; but the 
trout, I believe, are grown scarce : at least, now that the fish¬ 
ing in the Thames is improved, poor Mr. Jones complains 
that his old lodgers desert him. Of course you took the 
rooms for the sake of the fishing. I hope the sport may be 
better than it is said to be." 

“ It is of little consequence to me ; I do not care much 


KRNELM CHILLTNGL K 


33.1 


about fishing ; and since Miss Mordaunt calls the book which 
first enticed me to take to it ‘a cruel one,’ I feel as if the 
trout had become as sacred as crocodiles were to the ancient 
Egyptians.” 

“ Lily is a foolish child on such matters. She cannot 
bear the thought of giving pain to any dumb creature ; and 
just before our garden there are a few trout which she has 
tamed. They feed out of her hand ; she is always afraid 
they will wander away and get caught.” 

“ But Mr. Melville is an angler ? ” 

Several years ago he would sometimes pretend to fish, 
but I believe it was rather an excuse for lying on the grass 
and reading ‘the cruel book,’ or perhaps, rather, for sketch^ 
ing. But now he is seldom here till autumn, when it grows 
too cold for such amusement.” 

Here Sir Thomas’s voice was so loudly raised that it 
stopped the conversation between Kenelm and Mrs. Cam¬ 
eron. He had got into some question of politics on which 
he and the vicar did not agree, and the discussion threatened 
to become warm, when Mrs. Braefield, with a woman’s true 
tact, broached a new topic, in which Sir Thomas was imme¬ 
diately interested, relating to the construction of a conser¬ 
vatory for orchids that he meditated adding to his country- 
house, and in which frequent appeal was made to Mrs. 
Cameron, who was considered an accomplished florist, and 
who seemed at some time or other in her life to have ac¬ 
quired a very intimate acquaintance with the costly family 
of orchids. 

When the ladies retired, Kenelm found himself seated 
next to Mr. Emlyn, who astounded him by a complimentary 
quotation from one of his own Latin prize poems at the uni¬ 
versity, hoped he would make some stay at Moleswich, told 
him of the principal places in the neighborhood worth vis¬ 
iting, and offered him the run of his library, which he flat¬ 
tered himself was rather rich, both in the best editions of 
Greek and Latin classics and in early English literature. 
Kenelm was much pleased with the scholarly vicar, especially 
when Mr. Emlyn began to speak about Mrs. Cameron and 
Lily. Of the first he said, “ She is one of those women in 
whom Quiet is so predominant that it is long before one 
can know what undercurrents of good feeling flow beneath 
the unruffled surface. I wish, however, she was a little more 
active in the management and education of her niece—a girl 
in whom I feel a very anxious interest, and whom I doubt 


334 


KLNELM CHILLINGLY. 


if Mrs. Cameron understands. Perhaps, however, only a 
poet, and a very peculiar sort of poet, can understand her; 
Lily Mordaunt is herself a poem.” 

“ I like your definition of her,” said Kenelm. “There is 
certainly something about her which differs much from the 
prose of common life.” 

“ You probably know Wordsworth’s lines : 

‘ . . . and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty, born of murmuring sound, 

Shall pass into her face.’ 

They are lines that many critics have found unintelligible; 
but Lily seems like the living key to them.” 

Kenelm’s dark face lighted up, but he made no answer. 

“Only,” continued Mr. Emlyn, “ how a girl of that sort, 
left wholly to herself, untrained, undisciplined, is to grow 
up into the practical uses of womanhood, is a question that 
perplexes and saddens me.” 

“ Any more wine ? ” asked the host, closing a conversation 
on commercial matters with Sir Thomas. “No ?—shall we 
join the ladies ?” 


CHAPTER VII. 

The drawing-room was deserted ; the ladies were in the 
garden. As Kenelm and Mr. Emlyn walked side by side 
towards the group (Sir Thomas and Mr. Braefield following 
at a little distance), the former asked, somewhat abruptly, 
“ What sort of man is Miss Cameron’s guardian, Mr. Mel¬ 
ville ? ” 

“ I can scarcely answer that question. I see little of him 
when he comes here. Formerly he used to run down pretty 
often with a harum-scarum set of young fellows, quartered 
at Cromwell Lodge—Grasmere had no accommodation for 
them—students in the Academy, I suppose. For some years 
he has not brought those persons, and when he does come 
himself it is but for a few days. He has the reputation of 
being very wild.” 

Further conversation was here stopped. The two men, 
while they thus talked, had been diverging from the straight 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


335 


way across the lawn towards the ladies, turning into seques* 
tered paths through the shrubbery ; now they emerged into 
the open sward, just before a table on which coffee was 
served, and round which all the rest of the party were 
gathered. 

“I hope, Mr. Emlyn,” said Elsie’s cheery voice, “that 
you have dissuaded Mr. Chillingly from turning papist. I 
am sure you have taken time enough to do so.” 

Mr. Emlyn, protestant every inch of him, slightly recoiled 

iiom Kenelrn’s side. “ Do you meditate turning-” He 

could not conclude the sentence. 

“ Be not alarmed, my dear sir. I did but own to Mr. 
Braefield that I had paid a visit to Oxford in order to confer 
with a learned man on a question that puzzled me, and as 
abstract as that feminine pastime, theology, is nowadays. I 
cannot convince Mrs. Braefield that Oxford admits other 
puzzles in life than those which amuse the ladies.” Here 
Kenelm dropped into a chair by the side of Lily. 

Lily half turned her back to him. 

“ Have I offended again ?” 

Lily shrugged her shoulders slightly and would not an¬ 
swer. 

“ I suspect. Miss Mordaunt, that among your good qual¬ 
ities nature has omitted one ; the bettermost self within you 
should replace it.” 

Lily here abruptly turned to him her front face—the 
light of the skies was becoming dim, but the evening star 
shone upon it. 

“ How ! what do you mean ?” 

“ Am I to answer politely or truthfully ? ” 

“Truthfully! Oh, truthfully! What is life without 
truth ? ” ' 

“ Even though one believes in fairies ?” 

“ Fairies are truthful, in a certain way. But you are not 
truthful. You were not thinking of fairies when you-” 

“ When I what ? ” 

“ Found fault with me ! ” 

“ I am not sure of that. But I will translate to you my 
thoughts, so far as I can read them myself, and to do so I 
will resort to the fairies. Let us suppose that a fairy has 
placed her changeling into the cradle of a mortal ; that into 
the cradle she drops all manner of fairy gifts, which are not 
bestowed on mere mortals ; but that one mortal attribute she 
forgets. The changeling grows up, she charms those around 


33^ 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


her; they humor, and pet, and spoil her. But there arises 
a moment in which the omission of the one mortal gift is 
felt by her admirers and friends. Guess what that is.” 

Lily pondered. “ I see what you mean ; the reverse of 
truthfulness, politeness.” 

‘'No, not exactly that, though politeness slides into it un¬ 
awares ; it is a very humble quality, a very unpoetic quality ; 
a quality that many dull people possess; and yet without it 
no fairy can fascinate mortals, when on the face of the fairy 
setcles the first wrinkle. Can you not guess it now ? ” 

“No ; you vex me, you provoke me ;” and Lily stamped 
her foot petulantly, as in Kenelm’s presence she had stamped 
it once before. “ Speak plainly, I insist.” 

“ Miss Mordaunt, excuse me, I dare not,” said Kenelm, 
rising with the sort of bow one makes to the Queen ; and he 
crossed over to Mrs. Braefield. 

Lily remained, still pouting fiercely. 

Sir Thomas took the chair Kenelm had vacated. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The hour for parting came. Of all the guests, Sir Thomas 
alone stayed at the house a guest for the night. Mr. and 
Mrs. Emlyn had their own carriage. Mrs. Braefield’s car¬ 
riage came to the door for Mrs. Cameron and Lily. 

Said Lily, impatiently and discourteously, “Who would 
not rather walk on such a night ? ” and she whispered to 
her aunt. 

Mrs. Cameron, listening to the whisper, and obedient to 
every whim of Lily’s, said, “ You are too considerate, dear 
Mrs. Braefield. Lily prefers walking home ; there is no 
chance of rain now.” 

Kenelm followed the steps of the aunt and niece, and 
$oon overtook them on the brookside. 

“ A charming night, Mr. Chillingly,” said Mrs. Cameron. 

“ An English summer night ; nothing like it in such parts 
of the world as I have visited. But, alas ! of English suru 
mer nights there are but few.” 

“You have travelled much abroad?” 

“ Much—no, a little ; chiefly on foot ” 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Ill 

Lily hitherto had not said a word, and had been walking 
with downcast head. Now she looked up, and said, in the 
mildest and most conciliatory of human voices : 

“You have been abroad,” then, with an acquiescence in 
the manners of the world which to him she had never yet 
manifested, she added his name, “Mr. Chillingly,” and went 
on, more familiarly. “ What a breadth of meaning the word 
‘abroad’ conveys ! Away, afar from one’s self, from one’s 
everyday life. How I envy you ! you have been abroad ; so 
has Lion”—(Here drawing herself up)—“ I mean my guard¬ 
ian, Mr. Melville.” 

“ Certainly, I have been abroad ; but afar from myself— 
never. It is an old saying—all old sayings are true, most 
new sayings are false—a man carries his native soil at the 
sole of his foot.” 

Here the path somewhat narrowed. Mrs. Cameron went 
on first, Kenelm and Lily behind ; she, of course, on the dry 
path, he on the dewy grass. 

She stopped him. “You are walking in the wet, and 
with those thin shoes.” Lily moved instinctively away from 
the dry path. 

Homely though that speech of Lily’s be, and absurd as 
said by a fragile girl to a gladiator like Kenelm, it lit up a 
whole world of womanhood—it showed all that undiscover- 
able land which was hidden to the learned Mr. Emlyn, all 
that land which an uncomprehended girl seizes and reigns 
over when she becomes wife and mother. 

At that homely speech, and that impulsive movement, 
Kenelm halted, in a sort of dreaming maze. He turned 
timidly—“ Can you forgive me for my rude words ? I pre¬ 
sumed to find fault with you.” 

“And so justly. I have been thinking overall you said, 
and I feel you were so right; only I still do not quite under¬ 
stand what you meant by the quality for mortals which the 
fairy did not give to her changeling.” 

“ If I did not dare say it before, I should still less dare to 
say it now.” 

“ Do.” There was no longer the stamp of the foot, no 
longer the flash from her eyes, no longer the wilfulness 
which said, “ I insist; ”—“ Do,” soothingly, sweetly, implor- 
ingly. 

Thus pushed to it, Kenelm plucked up courage, and, not 
trusting himseJf to look at Lily, ansvrered brusquely : 

“ The quality desirable for men, but more essential to 

*S 


338 


KEN ELM CHlLiJNGLY. 


women in proportion as they arc fairy-like, though the tritesi 
thing possible, is good temper.” 

Lily made a sudden bound from his side, and joined her 
aunt, walking through the wet grass. 

When they reached the garden-gate, Kenelm advanced 
and opened it. Lily passed him by haughtily ; they gained 
tlie cottage-door. 

“ I don’t ask you in at this hour,” said Mrs. Cameron. 
“ It would be but a false compliment.” 

Kenelm bowed and retreated. Lily left her aunt’s side, 
and came towards him, extending her hand. 

“ I shall consider your words, Mr. Chillingly,” she said, 
with a strangely majestic air. “At present I think you are 
not right. I am not ill-tempered ; but ”—here she paused, 
and then added, with a loftiness of mien which, had she not 
been so exquisitely pretty, would have been rudeness—“ in 
any case I forgive you.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

There were a good many pretty villas in the outskirts of 
Moleswich, and the owners of them were generally well off ; 
and yet there was little of what is called visiting society— 
owing, perhaps, to the fact that, there not being among 
these proprietors any persons belonging to wdiat is com¬ 
monly called “the aristocratic class,” there was a vast deal 

of aristocratic pretension. The family of Mr. A-, wdio 

had enriched himself as a stock-jobber, turned up its nose at 

the family of Mr. B-, who had enriched himself still more 

as a linen-draper, while the family of Mr. B-showed a 

very cold shoulder to the family of Mr. C-, who had be¬ 

come richer than either of them as a pawnbroker, and whose 
wife wore diamonds, but dropped her h’s. England would 
be a community so aristocratic that there would be no liv¬ 
ing in it, if one could exterminate what is now called “aris¬ 
tocracy.” The Braefields were the only persons who really 
drew together the antagonistic atoms of the Moleswich 
society, partly because they were acknowledged to be the 
first persons there, in right not only of old settlement (the 
Braefields had held Braefieldville for four generations), but 
of the wealth derived from those departments of commer 




KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


339 


cial enterprise which are recognized as the highest, and of 
an establishment considered to be the most elegant in the 
neighborhood ; principally because Elsie, while exceedingly 
genial and cheerful in temper, had a certain power of will 
(as her runaway folly had manifested), and when she got 
people together compelled them to be civil to each other. 
She had commenced this gracious career by inaugurating 
children’s parties, and when the children became friends the 
parents necessarily grew closer together. Still her task had 
only recently begun, and its effects were not in full opera¬ 
tion. Thus, though it became known at Moleswich that a 
young gentleman, the heir to a baronetcy and a high estate, 
was sojourning at Cromwell Lodge, no overtures were made 
to him on the part of the A’s, B’s, and C’s. The vicar, who 
called on Kenelm the day after the dinner at Braefieldville, 
explained to him the social conditions of the place. “You 
understand,” said he, “that it will be from no want of cour¬ 
tesy on the part of my neighbors if they do not offer you 
any relief from the pleasures of solitude. It will be simply 
because they are shy, not because they are uncivil. And it 
is this consideration that makes me, at the risk of seeming 
too forward, entreat you to look into the vicarage any morn¬ 
ing or evening on which you feel tired of your own com¬ 
pany. Suppose you drink tea with us this evening—you 
will find a young lady whose heart you have already won.” 

“ Whose heart I have won ! ” faltered Kenelm, and the 
warm blood rushed to his cheek. 

“ But,” continued the vicar, smiling, “she has no matri¬ 
monial designs on you at present. She is only twelve years 
old—my little girl Clemmy.” 

“ Clemmy!—She is your daughter. I did not know that. 
I very gratefully accept your invitation.” 

“I must not keep you longer from your amusement. 
The sky is just clouded enough for sport. What fly do you 
use ?” 

“To say truth, I doubt if the stream has much to tempt 
me in the way of its trout, and I prefer rambling about the 
lanes and by-paths to 

‘The noiseless angler’s solitary stand.* 

I am an indefatigable walker, and the home scenery round 
the place has many charms for me. Besides,” added Ken¬ 
elm, feeling conscious that he ought to find some more plans 


340 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


ible excuse than the charms of home scenery for locating 
himself long in Cromwell Lodge — “ besides, I intend to de¬ 
vote myself a good deal to reading. I have been very idle 
of late, and the solitude of this place must be favorable to 
study.’' 

“You are not intended, I presume, for any of the learned 
professions ?" 

“The learned professions,” replied Kenelm, “ is an invidi « 
ous form of speech that we are doing our best to eradicate 
from the language. All professions nowadays are to have 
much about the same amount of learning. The learning of 
the military profession is to be levelled upwards—the learn¬ 
ing of the scholastic to be levelled downwards. Cabinet 
ministers sneer at the uses of Greek and Latin. And even 
such masculine studies as Law and Medicine are to be 
adapted to the measurements of taste and propriety in col¬ 
leges for young ladies. No, I am not intended for any pro¬ 
fession ; but still an ignorant man like myself may not be 
the worse for a little book-reading now and then.” 

“ You seem to be badly provided with books here,” said 
the vicar, glancing round the room, in which, on a table in 
the corner, lay half a dozen old-looking volumes, evidently 
belonging not to the lodger but the landlord. “ But, as I 
before said, my library is at your service. What branch of 
reading do you prefer ?” 

Kenelm was, and looked, puzzled. But after a pause he 
answered : 

“ The more remote it be from the present day, the better 
for me. You said your collection was rich in mediaeval liter¬ 
ature. But the Middle Ages are so copied by the modern 
Goths, that I might as well read translations of Chaucer, or 
take lodgings in Wardour Street. If you have any books 
about the manners and habits of those who, according to 
the newest idea in science, were our semi-human progeni¬ 
tors in the transition state between a marine animal and a 
gorilla, I should be very much edified by the loan.” 

“Alas,” said Mr. Emlyn, laughing, “ no such books have 
been left to us.” 

“No such books? You must be mistaken. There must 
be plenty of them somewhere. I grant all the wonderful 
powers of invention bestowed on the creators of poetic ro¬ 
mance ; still, not the sovereign masters in that realm of 
literature—not Scott, not Cervantes, not Goethe, not even 
Shakspeare—could have presumed to rebuild the past with< 


KENELM CIIILUMGLY. 


34i 


out such materials as they found in the books that record it. 
And though I, no less cheerfully, grant that we have now 
living among us a creator of poetic romance immeasurably 
more inventive than they—appealing to our credulity in por¬ 
tents the most monstrous, with a charm of style the most 
conversationally familiar—still I cannot conceive that even 
that unrivalled romance-writer can so bewitch our under¬ 
standings as to make us believe that, if Miss Mordaunt’s 
cat dislikes to wet her feet, it is probably because in the pre¬ 
historic age her ancestors lived in the dry country of Egypt; 
or that when some lofty orator, a Pitt or a Gladstone, rebuts 
with a polished smile which reveals his canine teeth the rude 
assault of an opponent, he betrays his descent from a ‘semi¬ 
human progenitor ’ who was accustomed to snap at his en¬ 
emy. Surely—surely there must be some books still extant 
written by philosophers before the birth of Adam, in wdiich 
there is authority, even though but in mythic fable, for 
such poetic inventions. Surely—c-urely some early chroni¬ 
clers must depose that they saw, saw with their own eyes, 
the great gorillas who scratched off their hairy coverings to 
please the eyes of the young ladies of their species, and that 
they noted the gradual metamorphosis of one animal into 
another. For, if you tell me that this illustrious romance- 
writer is but a cautious man of science, and that we must 
accept his inventions according to the sober laws of evidence 
and fact, there is not the most incredible ghost-story which 
does not better satisfy the common sense of a skeptic. How¬ 
ever, if you have no such books, lend me the most unphilo- 
sophical you possess—on magic, for instance—the philoso¬ 
pher’s stone-” 

“ I have some of them,” said the vicar, laughing ; “you 
shall choose for yourself.” 

“ If you are going homeward, let me accompany you 
part of the way—I don’t yet know where the church and 
the vic^rage are, and I ought to know before I come in the 
evening.” 

Kenelm and the vicar walked side by side, very sociably, 
across the bridge and on the side of the rivulet on which 
stood Mrs. Cameron’s cottage. As they skirted the garden 
pale at the rear of the cottage, Kenelm suddenly stopped 
in the middle of some sentence which had interested Mr. 
Einlyn, and as suddenly arrested his steps on the turf that 
bordered the lane. A little before him stood an old peasant 
woman, with whom Lily, on the opposite side of the garden 



kENELM CHILlJkGLY, 


pale, was conversing. Mr. Emlyn did not at first see whal 
Kenelm saw ; turning round rather to gaze on his compan* 
ion, surprised by his abrupt halt and silence. The girl put 
a small basket into the old woman’s hand, who then dropped 
a low curtsy, and uttered low a “God bless you.” Low 
though it was, Kenelm overheard it, and said abstractedly 
to Mr. Emlyn, “Is there a greater link between this life and 
the next than God’s blessing on the young, breathed from 
the lips of the old ?” 


CHAPTER X. 

“ And how is your good man, Mrs. Haley ? ” said the 
vicar, who had now reached the spot on which the old 
woman stood—with Lily’s fair face still bended down to 
her—while Kenelm slowly followed him. 

“ Thank you kindly, sir, he is better—out of his bed 
now. The young lady has done him a power of good-” 

“ Hush ! ” said Lily, coloring. “ Make haste home now ; 
you must not keep him waiting for his dinner.” 

The old woman again curtsied, and went off at a brisk 
pace. 

“ Do you know, Mr. Chillingly,” said Mr. Emlyn, “ that 
Miss Mordaunt is the best doctor in the place ? Though if 
she goes on making so many cures she will find the number 
of her patients rather burdensome.” 

“It was only the other day,” said Lily, “ that you scolded 
me for the best cure I have yet made.” 

“ I ?—Oh ! I remember ; you led that silly child Madge 
to believe there was a fairy charm in the arrowroot you 
sent her. Own you deserved a scolding there.” 

“No, I did not. I dress the arrowroot, and am I not 
Fairy ? I have just got such a pretty note from Clemmy, 
Mr. Emlyn, asking me to come up this evening and see her 
new magic-lantern. Will you tell her to expect me ? And 
—mind—no scolding.” 

“And all magic ?” said Emlyn ; “be it so.” 

Lily and Kenelm had not hitherto exchanged a word. 
She had replied with a grave inclination of her head to his 
silent bow. But now she turned to him shyly and said, “ I 
suppose you have been fishing all the morning ? ” 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


343 


No ; the fishes hereabout are under the protection of 
a Fairy—whom I dare not displease.” 

Lily’s face brightened, and she extended her hand to 
nim over the palings. “ Good-day ; I hear aunty’s voice— 
those dreadful French verbs ! ” 

She disappeared among the shrubs, amid which they 
heard the trill of her fresh young voice singing to herself. 

“ That child has a heart of gold,” said Mr. Emlyn, as the 
two men walked on. “ I did not exaggerate when I said 
slie was the best doctor in the place. I believe the poor 
really do believe that she is a Fairy. Of course we send 
from the vicarage to our ailing parishioners who require it 
food and wine ; but it never seems to do them the good that 
her little dishes made by her owm tiny hands do ; and I 
don’t know if you noticed the basket that old woman took 
away—Miss Lily taught Will Somers to make the prettiest 
little baskets ; and she puts her jellies or other savories into 
dainty porcelain gallipots nicely fitting into the baskets, 
which she trims with ribbons. It is the look of the thing 
that tempts the appetite of the invalids, and certainly the 
child may well be called Fairy at present; but I wish Miss 
Cameron w^ould attend a little more strictly to her educa¬ 
tion. She can’t be a Fairy forever.” 

Kenelm sighed, but made no answer. 

Mr. Emlyn then turned the conversation to erudite sub¬ 
jects ; and so they came in sight of the town, when the vicar 
stopped and pointed towards the church, of which the spire 
rose a little to the left, with two aged yew-trees half shadow¬ 
ing the burial-ground, and in the rear a glimpse of the 
vicarage seen amid the shrubs of its garden ground. 

“ You will know your way now,” said the vicar ; “ excuse 
me if I quit you ; I have a few visits to make ; among others, 
♦o poor Haley, husband to the old woman you saw. I read 
to him a chapter in the Bible every day ; yet still I fancy 
that he believes in fairy charms.” 

“ Better believe too much than too little,” said Kenelm ; 
and he turned aside into the village, and spent half an hour 
Vith Will, looking at the pretty baskets Lily had taught Will 
to make. Then, as he went slowly homeward, he turned 
aside into the churchyard. 

The church, built in the thirteenth century, was not large, 
but it probably sufficed for its congregation, since it betrayed 
no signs of modern addition ; restoration or repair it needed 
not. The centuries had but mellowed the tints of its solid 


344 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


walls, as little injured by the huge ivy stems that shot forth 
their aspiring leaves to the very summit of the stately tower, 
as by the slender roses which had been trained to climb up 
a foot or so of the massive buttresses. The site of the 
burial-ground was unusually picturesque ; sheltered towards 
the north by a rising ground clothed with woods, sloping 
down at the south towards the glebe pasture grounds, 
through which ran the brooklet, sufficiently near for its 
brawling gurgle to be heard on a still day. Kenelm sat 
himself on an antique tomb, which was evidently appro¬ 
priated to some one of higher than common rank in bygone 
days, but on which the sculpture was wholly obliterated. 

The stillness and solitude of the place had their charm 
for his meditative temperament; and he remained there 
long, forgetful of time, and scarcely hearing the boom of 
the clock that warned him of its lapse. 

When suddenly, a shadow—the shadow of a human form 
—fell on the grass on which his eyes dreamily rested. He 
looked up with a start, and beheld Lily standing before him 
mute and still. Her image was so present in his thoughts 
at the moment that he felt a thrill of awe, as if the thoughts 
had conjured up her apparition. She was the first to speak. 

“You here, too?” she said very softly, almost whisperingly. 

“ Too !” echoed Kenelm, rising ; “too! ’Tis no wonder 
that I, a stranger to the place, should find my steps attracted 
towards its most venerable building. Even the most care¬ 
less traveller, halting at some remote abodes of the living, 
turns aside to gaze on the burial-ground of the dead. But 
my surprise is that you. Miss Mordaunt, should be attracted 
towards the same spot.” 

“ It is my favorite spot,” said Lily, “ and always has 
been. I have sat many an hour on that tombstone. It is 
strange to think that no one knows who sleeps beneath it. 
The ‘Guide Book to Moleswich,’ though it gives the history 
of the church from the reign in which it was first built, can 
only venture a guess that this tomb, the grandest and oldest 
in the burial-ground, is tenanted by some member of a fam¬ 
ily named Montfichet, that was once very powerful in the 
county, and has become extinct since the reign of Henry the 
Sixth. But,” added Lily, “there is not a letter of the name 
Montfichet left. I found out more than any one else has 
done—I learned black-letter on purpose ; look here,” and 
sh^pointed to a small spot in which the moss had been re¬ 
moved. “Do you see those figures? are they not xviii? 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


^45 

and look again, in what was once the line above the figures, 
ELE. It must have been an Eleanor, who died at the age of 
eighteen-” 

“ I rather think it more probable that the figures refer to 
the date of the death, 1318 perhaps ; and so far as I can de¬ 
cipher black-letter, which is more in my father’s line than 
mine, I think it is a l, not e l, and that it seems as if there 
had been a letter between l and the second e, which is now 
effaced. The tomb itself is not likely to belong to any 
powerful family then resident at the place. Their monu¬ 
ments, according to usage, would have been within the 
church ; probably in their own mortuary chapel.” 

“ Don’t try to destroy my fancy,” said Lily, shaking her 
head; “you cannot succeed; I know her history too well. 
She was young, and some one loved her, and built over her 
the finest tomb he could afford ; and see how long the 
epitaph must have been ! how much it must have spoken in 
her praise; and of his grief. And then he went his way, and 
the tomb was neglected, and her fate forgotten.” 

“My dear Miss Mordaunt, this is indeed a wild romance 
to spin out of so slender a thread. But even if true, there 
is no reason to think that a life is forgotten though a tomb 
be neglected.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Lily, thoughtfully. “ But when I am 
dead, if I can look down, I think it would please me to see 
my grave not neglected by those who had loved me once.” 

She moved from him as she said this, and went to a little 
mound that seemed not long since raised ; there was a 
simple cross at the head, and a narrow border of flowers 
round it. Lily knelt beside the flowers and pulled out a 
stray weed. Then she rose, and said to Kenelm, who had 
followed and now stood beside her : 

“She was the little grandchild of poor old Mrs Hales. 
I could not cure her, though I tried hard ; she was so fond 
of me, and died in my arms. No, let me not say ‘ died : ’ surely 
there is no such thing as dying. ’Tis but a change of life ; 

“ ‘ Less than the void between two waves of air, 

The space between existence and a souL’ ” 

“ Whose lines are those ? ” asked Kenelm. 

“ I don’t know ; I learnt them from Lion. Don’t you 
believe them to be true ? ” 

“ Yes ! But the truth does not render the thought of 


15 



34^ 


KENELM CHTLLmGLV. 


quitting this scene of life for another more pleasing to most 
of us. See how soft and gentle and bright is all that living 
summer land beyond ; let us find subject for talk from that, 
not from the graveyard on which we stand.” 

“ But is there not a summer land fairer than that we see 
now ; and which we do see, as in a dream, best when we 
take subjects of talk from the graveyard ? ” Without wait¬ 
ing for a reply, Lily went on : “I planted these flowers : 
Mr. Emlyn was angry with me, he said it was ‘ popish.’ 
But he had not the heart to have them taken up ; I come 
here very often to see to them. Do you think it wrong ? 
Poor little Nell !—she was so fond of flowers. And the 
Eleanor in the great tomb, she too perhaps knew some one 
who called her Nell ; but there are no flowers round her 
tomb—Poor Eleanor !” 

She took the nosegay she wore on her bosom, and as she 
repassed the tomb laid it on the mouldering stone. 


CHAPTER XL 

They quitted the burial-ground, taking their way to 
Grasmere. Kenelm walked by Lily’s side ; not a word 
passed between them till they came in sight of the cottage. 

Then Lily stopped abruptly, and, lifting towards him her 
charming face, said : 

‘‘ I told you I would think over what you said to me last 
night. I have done so, and feel I can thank you honestly. 
You were very kind. I never before thought that I had a 
bad temper ; no one ever told me so. But I see now what 
you mean—sometimes I feel very quickly, and then I show 
it. But how did I show‘it to you, Mr. Chillingly ? ” 

Did you not turn your back to me when I seated my¬ 
self next you in Mrs. Braefield’s garden, vouchsafing me no 
reply when I asked if I had offended ? ” 

Lily’s face became bathed in blushes, and her voice 
faltered, as she answered : 

“ I was not offended ; I was not in a bad temper then: 
it was worse than that.” 

“ Worse—what could it possibly be ? ” 

“ I am afraid it was envy.” 



kienelm chillingly. 


34 ? 


** Envy of what—of whom ? ” 

“ I don’t know how to explain ; after all, I fear aunty is 
right, and the fairy-tales put very silly, very naughty, 
thoughts into one’s head. When Cinderella’s sisters went 
to the king’s ball, and Cinderella was left alone, did not she 
long to go too ? Did not she envy her sisters ? ” 

“ Ah ! I understand now—Sir Charles spoke of the 
Court Ball.” 

“ And you were there talking with handsome ladies—and 
—oh ! I was so foolish and felt sore.” 

“ You, who when we first met wondered how people who 
could live in the countrv preferred to live in towns, do then 
sometimes contradict yourself, and sigh for the great world 
that lies beyond these quiet water banks. You feel that you 
have youth and beauty, and wish to be admired ! ” 

“ It is not that exactly,” said Lily, with a perplexed look 
in her ingenuous countenance, “ and in my better moments, 
when the ‘bettermost self’ comes forth, I know that I am 
not made for the great world you speak of. But you see 

-” Here she paused again, and, as they had now entered 

the garden, dropped wearily on a bench beside the path. 
Kenelm seated himself there too, waiting for her to finish 
her broken sentence. 

“You see,” she continued, looking down embarrassed, 
and describing vague circles on the gravel with her fairy¬ 
like foot, “ that at home, ever since I can remember, they 
have treated me as if, well as if I were—what shall I say ? 
—the child of one of your great ladies. Even Lion, who is 
so noble, so grand, seemed to think when I was a mere in¬ 
fant that I was a little queen ; once when I told a fib he did 
not scold me, but I never saw him look so sad and so angry 
as when he said, ‘ Never again forget that you are a lady.’ 
And, but I tire you-” 

“ Tire me, indeed ! go on.” 

“ No, I have said enough to explain why I have at times 
proud thoughts, and vain thoughts ; and why for instance I 
said to myself, ‘ Perhaps my place of right is among those 
fine ladies whom he ’—but it is all over now.” She rose 
hastily with a pretty laugh, and bounded towards Mrs. 
Cameron, who was walking slowly along the lawn with a 
book in her hand. 



kENELM CHILLINGLY, 


34 ^ 


CHAPTER XII. 

It was a very merry party at tlie vicarage that evening, 
Lily had not been prepared to meet Kenelm there> and her 
face brightened wonderfully as at her entrance he turned 
from the bookshelves to which Mr. Emlyn was directing his 
attention. But, instead of meeting his advance, she darted 
off to the lawn, where Clemmy and several other children 
greeted her with a joyous shout.” 

“ Not acquainted with Macleane’s ‘ Juvenal ’ ?” said the 
reverend scholar; “you will be greatly pleased with it— 
here it is—a posthumous work, edited by George Long. I 
can lend you Munro’s Lucretius, ‘69. Aha! we have some 
scholars yet to pit against the Germans.” 

“ I am heartily glad to hear it,” said Kdnelm. “ It will 
be a long time before they will ever wish to rival us in that 
game which Miss Clemmy is now forming on the lawn, and 
in which England has recently acquired an European repu¬ 
tation.” 

“ I don’t take you. What game ? ” 

“ Puss in the Corner. With your leave I will look out 
and see whether it be a winning game for puss-—in the long 
run.” Kenelm joined the children, amidst whom Lily 
seemed not the least childlike. Resisting all overtures from 
Clemmy to join in their play, he seated himself on a sloping 
bank at a little distance—an idle looker-on. His eye fol¬ 
lowed Lily’s nimble movements, his ear drank in the music 
of her joyous laugh. Could that be the same girl whom he 
had seen tending the flower-bed amid the grave-stones ? 
Mrs. Emlyn came across the lawn and joined him, seating 
herself also on the bank. Mrs. Emlyn was an exceedingly 
clever woman ; nevertheless she was not formidable, on the 
contrary pleasing ; and though the ladies in the neighbor¬ 
hood said “she talked like a book,” the easy gentleness of 
her voice carried off that offence. 

“ I suppose, Mr. Chillingly,” said she, “ I ought to apolo¬ 
gize for my husband’s invitation to what must seem to you 
so frivolous an entertainment as a child’s party. But when 
Mr. Emlyn asked you to come to us this evening, he was 
not aware that Clemmy had also invited her young friends 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


349 


He had looked forward to a rational conversation with you 
on his own favorite studies.” 

“ It is not so long since I left school but that I prefer a 
half-holiday to lessons, even from a tutor so pleasant as Mr. 
Emlyn— 

‘ Ah, happy years—once more who would not be a boy ! ’ ” 

“Nay,” said Mrs. Emlyn, with a grave smile. “Who 
that had started so fairly as Mr. Chillingly in the career of 
man would wish to go back and resume a place among 
boys ? ” 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Emlyn, the line I quoted was wrung 
from the heart of a man who had already outstripped all 
rivals in the raceground he had chosen, and who at that 
moment was in the very Maytime of youth and of fame. 
And if such a man at such an epoch in his career could sigh 
to ‘be once more a boy,’ it must have been when he was 
thinking of the boy’s half-holiday, and recoiling from the 
taskwork he was condemned to learn as man.” 

“ The line you quote is, I think, from Childe Harold, and 
surely you would not apply to mankind in general the senti¬ 
ment of a poet so pecu-liarly self-reflecting (if I may use 
that expression), and in whom sentiment is often so 
morbid.” 

“ You are right, Mrs. Emlyn,” said Kenelm, ingenuously. 
“ Still a boy’s half-holiday is a very happy thing ; and 
among mankind in general, there must be many who would 
be glad to have it back again. Mr. Emlyn himself, I should 
think.” 

“Mr. Emlyn has his half-holiday now. Do you not see 
him standing just outside the window ? Do you not hear 
him laughing ? He is a child again in the mirth of his 
children. I hope you will stay some time in the neighbor¬ 
hood ; I am sure you and he will like each other. And it is 
such a rare delight to him to get a scholar like yourself to 
talk to.” 

“ Pardon me, I am not a scholar—a very noble title that, 
and'not to be given to a lazy trifler on the surface of book- 
lore like myself.” 

“ You are too modest. My husband has a copy of your 
Cambridge prize verses, and says ‘ the Latinity of them is 
quite beautiful.’ 1 quote his very words.” 

“ Latin verse-making is a mere knack, little more than 
a proof that one had an elegant scholar for one’s tutor, as I 


350 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


certainly had. But it is by special grace that a real schol;^* 
can send forth another real scholar, and a Kennedy produce 
a Munro. But to return to the more interesting question 
of half-holidays ; I declare that Clemmy is leading off your 
husband in triumph. He is actually going to be Puss in the 
Corner.” 

“ When you know more of Charles—I mean my husband 
—you will discover that his whole life is more or less of a 
holiday. Perhaps because he is not what you accuse your¬ 
self of being—he is not lazy ; he never wishes to be a boy 
once more ; and taskwork itself is holiday to him. He en¬ 
joys shutting himself up in his study and reading—he en¬ 
joys a walk with the children—he enjoys visiting the poor 
—he enjoys his duties as a clergyman. And though I am 
not always contented for him, though I think he should 
have had those honors in his profession which have been 
lavished on men with less ability and less learning, yet he 
is never discontented himself. Shall I tell you his se¬ 
cret ? ” 

“ Do.” 

“ He is a Thanks-giving Man. You, too, must have mucli 
to thank God for, Mr. Chillingly ; and in thanksgiving t;i 
God does there not blend usefulness to man, and such 
sense of pastime in the usefulness as makes each day a holi 
day ? ” 

Kenelm looked up into the quiet face of this obscure, 
pastor’s wife with a startled expression in his own. 

“ I see, ma’am,” said he, “that you have devoted much 
thought to the study of the aesthetical philosophy as ex¬ 
pounded by German thinkers, whom it is rather difficult to 
understand.” 

“ I, Mr. Chillingly—good gracious ! No ! What do you 
mean by your aesthetical philosophy ? ” 

“According to aesthetics, I believe man arrives at his 
highest state of moral excellence when labor and duty lose 
all the harshness of etfort—when they become the impulse 
and habit of life; when, as the essential attributes of the 
beautiful, they are, like beauty, enjoyed as pleasure ; and 
thus, as you expressed, each day becomes a holiday. A 
lovely doctrine, not perhaps so lofty as that of the Stoics, 
but more bewitching. Only, very few of us can practically 
merge our cares and our worries into so serene an atmos 
phere.” 

“ Some do so without knowing anything of aesthetic# 


KENEJ.M CHILLINGLY, 


35 ' 


and with no pretence to be Stoics ; but, then, they are 
Christians.” 

“ There are some such Christians, no doubt, but they are 
rarely to be met with. Take Christendom altogether, and 
it appears to comprise the most agitated population in the 
world ; the population in which there is the greatest grumb¬ 
ling as to the quantity of labor to be done, the loudest com¬ 
plaints that duty instead of a pleasure is a very hard and 
disagreeable struggle, and in which holidays are fewest and 
the moral atmosphere least serene. Perhaps,” added Ken- 
elm, with a deeper shade of thought on his brow, ‘‘ it is 
this perpetual consciousness of struggle ; this difficulty in 
merging toil into ease, or stern duty into placid enjoyment : 
this refusal to ascend for one’s self into the calm of an air 
aloof from the cloud which darkens, and the hailstorm 
which beats upon, the fellow-men we leave below; that 
makes the troubled life of Christendom dearer to heaven, 
and more conducive to heaven’s design in rendering earth 
the wrestling-ground and not the resting-place of man, than 
is that of the Brahmin, ever seeking to abstract himself from 
the Christian’s conflicts of action and desire, and to carry 
into its extremest practice the aesthetic theory, of basking 
undisturbed in the contemplation of the most absolute 
beauty human thought can reflect from its idea of divine 
good f” 

Whatever Mrs. Emlyn might have said in reply was in¬ 
terrupted by the rush of the children towards her ; they 
were tired of play, and eager for tea and the magic-lantern. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The room is duly obscured, and the white sheet attached 
to the wall; the children are seated, hushed and awe-stricken. 
And Kenelm is placed next to Lily. 

The tritest things in our mortal experience are among 
the most mysterious. There is more mystery in the growth 
of a blade of grass than there is in the wizard’s mirror or 
the feats of a spirit medium. Most of us have known the 
attraction that draws one human being to another, and 
makes it so exquisite a happiness to sit quiet and mute by 
qinother’s side ; which stills for the moment the busiest 



352 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


thoughts in our brain, the most turbulent desires in our 
hearts, and renders us but conscious of a present ineffable 
bliss. Most of us have known that. But who has ever 
been satisfied with any metaphysical account of its why or 
wherefore ? We can but say it is love, and love at that 
earlier section of its history which has not yet escaped from 
romance : but by what process that other person has become 
singled out of the whole universe to attain such special 
power over one, is a problem that, though many have'at¬ 
tempted to solve it, has never attained to solution. In the 
dim light of the room Kenelm could only distinguish the 
outlines of Lily’s delicate face, but at each new surprise in 
the show the face intuitively turned to his, and once, when 
the terrible image of a sheeted ghost, pursuing a guilty man, 
passed along the wall, she drew closer to him in her childish 
fright, and by an involuntary innocent movement laid her 
hand on his. He detained it tenderly, but, alas! it was 
withdrawn the next moment; the ghost was succeeded by a 
couple of dancing dogs. And Lily’s ready laugh—partly at 
the dogs, partly at her own previous alarm—vexed Kenelm’s 
ear. He wished there had been a succession of ghosts each 
more appalling than the last. 

The entertainment was over, and after a slight refresh¬ 
ment of cakes and wine-and-water the party broke up ; the 
children-visitors went awav attended by servant-maids who 
had come for them. Mrs. Cameron and Lily were to walk 
home on foot. 

“It is a lovely night, Mrs. Cameron,” said Mr. Emlyn, 
“ and I will attend you to your gate.” 

“ Permit me also,” said Kenelm. 

“Ay,” said the vicar, '‘it is your own way to Cromwell 
Lodge.” 

The path led them through the church-yard as the nearest 
approach to the brookside. The moonbeams shimmered 
through the yew-trees and rested on the old tomb—playing, 
as it were, round the flowers which Lily’s hand had that 
day dropped upon its stone. She was walking beside Ken- 
elm—the elder two a few paces in front. 

“ How silly I was,” said.she, “to be so frightened at the 
false ghost! I don’t think a real one would frighten me, 
at least if seen here, in this loving moonlight, and on God’s 
ground ! ” 

“ Ghosts, were they permitted to appear except in a 
magic-lantern, could not harm the innocent. And I wonder 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


m 

why the idea of their apparition should always have been 
associated with such phantasies of horror, especially by 
sinless children, who have the least reason to dread them.” 

“ Oh, that is true,” cried Lily ; “but even when we are 
grown up there must be times in which we should so long 
to see a ghost, and feel what a comfort, what a joy it would 
be.” 

“ I understand you. If some one very dear to us had 
vanished from our life ; if we felt the anguish of the separa¬ 
tion so intensely as to efface the thought that life, as you 
said so well, ‘never dies well, yes, then Lean conceive 
that the mourner would yearn to have a glimpse of the van¬ 
ished one, were it but to ask the sole and only question he 
could desire to put : ‘ Art thou happy ? May I hope that 
we shall meet again, never to part—never ? ’ ” 

Kenelm’s voice trembled as he spoke ; tears stood in his 
eyes. A melancholy, vague, unaccountable, overpowering, 
passed across his heart, as the shadow of some dark-winged 
bird passes over a quiet stream. 

“You have never yet felt this ? ” asked Lily doubtingly, 
in a soft voice, full of tender pity, stopping short and look¬ 
ing into his face. 

“ I ? No. I have never yet lost one whom I so loved 
and so yearned to see again. I was but thinking that such 
losses may befall us all ere we too vanish out of sight.” 

“Lily!” called forth Mrs. Cameron, halting at the gate 
of the burial-ground. 

“ Yes, auntie ? ” 

“Mr. Emlyn wants to know how far you have got in 
‘ Numa Pompilius.’ Come and answer for yourself.” 

“ Oh, those tiresome grown-up people ! ” whispered Lily, 
petulantly, to Kenelm. “ I do like Mr. Emlyn ; he is one 
of the very best of men. But still he is grown up, and his 
‘Numa Pompilius’ is so stupid.” 

“ My first French lesson-book. No, it is not stupid. 
Read on. It has hints of the prettiest fairy-tale I know, 
and of the fairy in especial who bewitched my fancies as a 
boy.” 

By this time they had gained the gate of the burial- 
ground. 

“ What fairy tale ? what fairy ? ” asked Lily, speaking 
quickly. 

“ She was a fairy, though in heathen language she is 
called a nymph—Egeria, She was the link between men 


354 


KENELM CHILLINGL 1 ". 


and gods to whom she loved; she belongs to the race ol 
gods. True, she, too, may vanish, but she can never die” 

“ Well, Miss Lily,” said the vicar, “ and how far in the 
book I lent you—‘ Numa Pompilius ’ ? ” 

“Ask me this day next week.” 

“ I will ; but mind you are to translate as you go on. 1 
must see the translation.” 

“Very well. I will do my best,” answered Lily, meekly. 

Lily now walked by the vicar’s side, and Kenelm by Mrs. 
Cameron’s, till they reached Grasmere. 

“ I will go on with you to the bridge, Mr. Chillingly,” 
said the vicar, when the ladies had disappeared within their 
garden. 

“ We had little time to look over my books, and, by-the- 
by, I hope you at least took the ‘ Juvenal.’ ” 

“ No, Mr. Emlyn ; who can quit your house with an in¬ 
clination for satire ? I must come some morning and select 
a volume from those works which give pleasant views ol 
life and bequeath favorable impressions of mankind. Youi 
wife, with whom I have had an interesting conversation 
upon the principles of aesthetical philosophy-” 

“ My wife—Charlotte ! She knows nothing about aesthe¬ 
tical philosophy.” 

“ She calls it by another name, but she understands it 
well enough to illustrate the principles by example. Sht 
tells me that labor and duty are so taken up by you 

‘ In den heitern Regionen 
Wo die reincn For men wohnen,* 

that they become joy and beauty—is it so ? ” 

“ I am sure that Charlotte never said anything half so 
poetical. But, in plain words, the days pass with me very 
happily. I should be ungrateful if I were not happy. 
Heaven has bestowed on me so many sources of love—wife, 
children, books, and the calling which, when one quits one’s 
own threshold, carries love along with it into the world be¬ 
yond. A small world in itself—only a parish—but then my 
calling links it with infinity.” 

“ I see ; it is from the sources of love that you draw the 
supplies for happiness.” 

“ Surely; without love one may be good, but one could 
scarcely be happy. No one can dream of a heaven except as 
the abode of love. What writer is it who says, ‘ How well 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


J55 

ihe xhuman heart was understood by him who first called 
God by the name of Father ’ ?” 

“I do not remember, but it is beautifully said. You 
evidently do not subscribe to the arguments in Decimus 
Roach’s ‘Approach to the Angels.’ ” 

“ Ah, Mr. Chillingly ! your words teach me how lacera¬ 
ted a man’s happiness may be if he does not keep the claws 
of vanity closely pared. I actually feel a keen pang when 
you speak to me of that eloquent panegyric on celibacy, 
ignorant that the only thing I ever published which I fan¬ 
cied was not without esteem by intellectual readers is a 
Reply to ‘ 1 he Approach to the Angels ’—a youthful book, 
written in the first year of my marriage. But it obtained 
success : I have just revised the tenth edition of it.” 

“That is the book I will select from your library. You 
will be pleased to hear that Mr. Roach, whom I saw at Ox¬ 
ford a few days ago, recants his opinions, and, at the age of 
fifty, is about to be married—he begs me to add, ‘ not for 
his own personal satisfaction.’ ” 

“ Going to be married !—Decimus Roach ! I thought 
my Reply would convince him at last.” 

“ I shall look to your Reply to remove some lingering 
doubts in my own mind.” 

“ Doubts in favor of celibacy ? ” 

“Well, if not for laymen, perhaps for a priesthood.” 

“ The most forcible part of my Reply is on that head : 
read it attentively. I think that, of all sections of mankind, 
the clergy are those to whom, not only for their own sakes, 
but for the sake of the community, marriage should be 
most commended. Why, sir,” continued the vicar, warm¬ 
ing up into oratorical enthusiasm, “ are you not aware that 
there are no homes in England from which men who have 
served and adorned their country have issued forth in such 
prodigal numbers as those of the clergy of our Church ? 
What other class can produce a list so crowded with emi¬ 
nent names as we can boast in the sons we have reared and 
sent forth into the world ? How many statesmen, soldiers, 
sailors, lawyers, physicians, authors, men of science, have 
been the sons of us village pastors ! Naturally—for with 
us they receive careful education ; they acquire of necessity 
the simple tastes and disciplined habits which lead to in¬ 
dustry and perseverance ; and, for the most part, they carry 
with them throughout life a purer moral code, a more sys¬ 
tematic reverence for things and thoughts religious as§0^ 


356 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


ciated with their earliest images of affection and respect, 
than can be expected from the sons of laymen, whose pa¬ 
rents are wholly temporal and worldly. Sir, I maintain that 
this is a cogent argument, to be considered well by the 
nation, not only in favor of a married clergy—for, on that 
score, a million of Roaches could not convert public opinion 
in this country—but in favor of the Church, the Established 
Church; which has been so fertile a nursery of illustrious 
laymen ; and I have often thought that one main and un¬ 
detected cause of the lower tone of morality, public and 
private, of the greater corruption of manners, of the more 
prevalent scorn of religion which we see, for instance, in a 
country so civilized as France, is, that its clergy can train no 
sons to carry into the contests of earth the steadfast belief 
in accountability to Heaven.” 

“ I thank you with a full heart,” said Kenelm. “ I shall 
ponder well over all that you have so earnestly said. I am 
already disposed to give up all lingering crotchets as to a 
bachelor clergy; but, as a layman, I fear that I shall never 
attain to the purified philanthropy of Mr. Decimus Roach, 
and if ever I do marry it will be very much for my personal 
satisfaction.” 

Mr. Emlyn laughed good-humoredly, and, as they had 
now reached the bridge, shook hands with Kenelm, and 
walked homewards, along the brook-side and through the 
burial-ground, with the alert step and the uplifted head of a 
man who has joy in life and admits of no fear in death. 


f CHAPTER XIV. 

For the next two Weeks or so Kenelm and Lily met, not 
indeed so often as the reader might suppose, but still fre¬ 
quently ; five times at Mrs. Braefield’s, once again at the 
Vicarage, and twice when Kenelm had called at Grasmere; 
and, being invited to stay to tea at one of those visits, he 
stayed the whole, evening. Kenelm was more and more 
fascinated in proportion as he saw more and more of a crea¬ 
ture so exquisitely strange to his experience. She was to 
him not only a poem, but a poem in the Sibylline Books— 
enigmatical, perplexing conjecture, and somehow or othei 
mysteriously blending its interest with visions of the future 



JCENELM CHTLLIMGLY. 


357 


Lily was indeed an enchanting combination of opposites 
rarely blended into harmony. Her ignorance of much that 
girls know before they number half her years, was so re¬ 
lieved by candid, innocent simplicity ; so adorned by pretty 
fancies and sweet beliefs ; and so contrasted and lit up by 
gleams of a knowledge that the young ladies we call well 
educated seldom exhibit—knowledge derived from quick 
observation of external nature, and impressionable sus¬ 
ceptibility to its varying and subtle beauties. This knowl¬ 
edge had been perhaps first instilled, and subsequently 
nourished, by such poetry as she had not only learned by 
heart, but taken up as inseparable from the healthful circu¬ 
lation of her thoughts; not the poetry of our own day— 
most young ladies know enough of that—but selected frag¬ 
ments from the verse of old, most of them from poets now 
little read by the young of either sex, poets dear to spirits 
like Coleridge or Charles Lamb. None of them, however, 
so dear to her as the solemn melodies of Milton. Much of 
such poetry she had never read in books ; it had been 
taught her in childhood by her guardian, the painter. And 
with all this imperfect, desultory culture, there was such 
dainty refinement in her every look and gesture, and such 
deep woman-tenderness of heart. Since Kenelm had com¬ 
mended “Numa Pompilius ” to her study, she had taken 
very lovingly to that old-fashioned romance, and was fond 
of talking to him about Egeria as a creature who had really 
existed. 

But what was the effect that he—the first man of years 
correspondent to her own with whom she had ever familiarly 
conversed—what was the effect that Kenelm Chillingly pro¬ 
duced on the mind and the heart of Lily ? 

This was, after all, the question that puzzled him the most 
—not without reason : it might have puzzled the shrewdest 
bystander. The artless candor with which she manifested 
her liking to him was at variance with the ordinary char¬ 
acter of maiden love ; it seemed more the fondness of a child 
for a favorite brother. And it was this uncertainty that, in 
his own thoughts, justified Kenelm for lingering on, and be¬ 
lieving that it was necessary to win, or at least to learn more 
of, her secret heart before he could venture to disclose his 
own. He did not flatter himself with the pleasing fear that 
he might be endangering her happiness ; it was only his own 
that was risked. Then, in all those meetings, all those con¬ 
versations to themselves, there had passed none of the words 


RENELM GHTLLINGLY. 


358 

which commit our destiny to the will of another. If in the 
man's eyes love would force its way, Lily’s frank, innocent 
gaze chilled it back again to its inward cell. Joyously as 
she would spring forward to meet him, there was no tell-tale 
blush on her cheek, no self-betraying tremor in her clear, 
sweet-toned voice. No; there had not yet been a moment 
when he could say to himself, “ She loves me.” Often he 
said to himself, “She knows not yet what love is.” 

In the intervals of time not passed in Lily’s society, 
Kenelm would take long rambles with Mr. Emlyn, or saunter 
into Mrs. Braefield’s drawing-room. For the former he con¬ 
ceived a more cordial sentiment of friendship than he enter¬ 
tained for any man of his own age—a friendship that ad¬ 
mitted the noble elements of admiration and respect. 

Charles Emlyn was one of those characters in which the 
colors appear pale unless the light be brought very close to 
them, and then each tint seems to change into a warmer and 
richer one. The manner which, at first, you would call 
merely gentle, becomes unaffectedly genial ; the mind you 
at first might term inert, though well-informed, you now ac¬ 
knowledge to be full of disciplined vigor. Emlyn was not, 
however, without his little amiable foibles ; and it was, per¬ 
haps, these that made him lovable. He was a great believer 
in human goodness, and very easily imposed upon by cun¬ 
ning appeals tp “his well-known benevolence.” He was 
disposed to overrate the excellence of all that he once took 
to his heart. He thought he had the best wife in the world, 
the best children, the best servants, the best bee hive, the 
best pony, and the best house-dog. His parish was the most 
virtuous, his church the most picturesque, his vicarage the 
prettiest, certainly, in the whole shire—perhaps, in the whole 
kingdom. Probably it was this philosophy of optimism 
which contributed to lift him into the serene realm of 
aesthetic joy. 

He- was not without his dislikes as well as likings. 
Though a liberal Churchman towards Protestant dissenters, 
he cherished the odium theologicum for all that savored of 
Popery. Perhaps there was another cause for this besides 
the purely theological one. Early in life a young sister of 
his had been, to use his phrase, “secretly entrapped” into 
conversion to the Roman Catholic faith, and had since en¬ 
tered a convent. His affections had been deeply wounded 
by this loss to the range of them. Mr. Emlyn had also his 
little infirmities of self-esteem, rather than of vanity. 


iCEi^ELM CmLLlMGlV, 


350 


Though he had seen very little of any world beyond that of 
his parish, he piqued himself on his knowledge of human 
nature and of practical affairs in general. Certainly no man 
had read more about them, especially in the books of the 
ancient classics. Perhaps it was owing to this that he so 
little understood Lily—a character to which the Ancient 
classics afforded no counterpart nor clue ; and perhaps it was 
this also that made Lily think him “ so terribly grown up.’' 
Thus, despite his mild good nature, she did not get on verj 
well with him. 

The society of this amiable scholar pleased Kenelm the 
more, because the scholar evidently had not the remotest 
idea that Kenelm’s sojourn at Cromwell Lodge was in¬ 
fluenced by the vicinity to Grasmere. Mr. Emlyn was sure 
that he knew human nature, and practical affairs in general, 
too well to suppose that the heir to a rich baronet could 
dream of taking for wife a girl without fortune or rank, the 
orphan ward of a low-born artist only just struggling into 
reputation ; or, indeed, that a Cambridge prizeman, who had 
evidently read much on grave and dry subjects, and who 
had no less evidently seen a great deal of polished society, 
could find any other attraction in a very imperfectly educated 
girl, who tamed butterflies and knew no more than they did 
of fashionable life, than Mr. Emlyn himself felt in the pres¬ 
ence of a pretty wayward innocent child—the companion 
and friend of his Clemmy. 

Mrs. Braefield was more discerning ; but she had a good 
deal of tact, and did not as yet scare Kenelm away from her 
house by letting him see how much she had discerned. She 
would not even tell her husband, who, absent from the place 
on most mornings, was too absorbed in the cares of his own 
business to interest himself much in the affairs of others. 

Now Elsie, being still of a romantic turn of mind, had 
taken it into her head that Lily Mordaunt, if not actually 
the princess to be found in poetic dramas whose rank was 
for awhile kept concealed, was yet one of the higher-born 
daughters of the ancient race whose name she bore, and in 
that respect no derogatory alliance for Kenelm Chillingly. 
A conclusion she had arrived at from no better evidence than 
the well-bred appearance and manners of the aunt, and the 
exquisite delicacy of the niece’s form and features, with the 
undefinable air of distinction which accompanied even her 
most careless and sportive moments. But Mrs. Braefield 
also had the wit to discover that under the infantine ways 


^6o 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


atid phantasies of this almost self-taught girl there lay, as 
yet undeveloped, the element of a beautiful womanhood. 
So that altogether, from the very day she first re-encountered 
Kenelmj Elsie’s thought had been that Lily was the wife to 
suit him. Once conceiving that idea, her natural strength 
of will made her resolve on giving all facilities to carry it 
out silently and unobtrusively, and therefore skilfully. 

“ I am so glad to think,” she said one day, when Kenelm 
had joined her walk through the pleasant shrubberies in her 
garden ground, “that you have made such friends with Mr. 
Emlyn. Though all hereabouts like him so much for his 
goodness, there are few who can appreciate his learning. 
To you it must be a surprise as well as pleasure to find, in 
this quiet humdrum place, a companion so clever and well- 
informed ; it compensates for your disappointment in dis¬ 
covering that our brook yields such bad sport.” 

“ Don’t disparage the brook ; it yields the pleasantest 
banks on which to lie down under old pollard oaks at noon, 
or over which to saunter at morn and eve. Where those 
charms are absent, even a salmon could not please. Yes ; I 
rejoice to have made friends with Mr. Emlyn. I have learned 
a great deal from him, and am often asking myself whether 
I shall ever make peace with my conscience by putting what 
I have learned into practice.” 

“ May I ask what special branch of learning is that ?” 

“ I scarcely know how to define it. Suppose we call it 
* Worth-whileism.’ Among the New Ideas which I was 
recommended to study as those that must govern my gener¬ 
ation, the Not-worth-while Idea holds a very high rank ; and 
being myself naturally of calm and equable constitution, that 
new idea made the basis of my philosophical system. But 
since I have become intimate with Charles Emlyn I think 
there is a great deal to be said in favor of Worth-whileism, 
old idea though it be. I see a man who, with very common¬ 
place materials for interest or amusement at his command, 
continues to be always interested or generally amused ; I ask 
myself why and how ? And it seems to me as if the cause 
started from fixed beliefs which settle his relations with God 
and man, and that settlement he will not allow any specula¬ 
tions to disturb. Be those beliefs questionable or not by 
others, at least they are such as cannot displease a Deity, and 
cannot fail to be kindly and useful to fellow-mortals. Then 
he plants these beliefs on the soil of a happy and genial home, 
which tends to confirm and strengthen and call them intQ 


KEMELM CmtUNGly. 


daily practice ; and when he goes forth from home, even to 
the farthest verge of the circle that surrounds it, he carries 
with him the home influences of kindliness and use. Possi¬ 
bly my line of life may be drawn to the verge of a wider 
circle than his ; but so much the better for interest and 
amusement, if it can be drawn from the same centre ; name¬ 
ly, fixed beliefs daily warmed into vital action in the sunshine 
of a congenial home.” 

Mrs. Braefield listened to this speech with pleased atten¬ 
tion, and, as it came to its close, the name of Lily trembled 
on her tongue, for she divined that when he spoke of home 
Lily was in his thoughts ; but she checked the impulse, and 
replied by a generalized platitude. . 

“ Certainly the first thing in life is to secure a happy and 
congenial home. It must be a terrible trial for the best of 
us if we marry without love.” 

“ Terrible, indeed, if the one loves and the other does not.” 

“That can scarcely be your case, Mr. Chillingly, for I am 
sure you could not marry where you did not love ; and do 
not think I flatter you when I say that a man far less gifted 
than you can scarcely fail to be loved by the woman he wooes 
and wins.” 

Kenelm, in this respect one of the modestest of human 
beings, shook his head doubtingly and was about to reply in 
self-disparagement, when, lifting his eyes and looking round, 
he halted mute and still as if rooted to the spot. They had 
entered the trellised circle through the roses of which he had 
first caught sight of the young face that had haunted him 
ever since. 

“Ah !” he said, abruptly ; “I cannot stay longer here, 
dreaming away the work-day hours in a fairy ring. I am 
going to town to-day by the next train.” 

“ You are coming back ?” 

“ Of course—this evening. I left no address at my lodg¬ 
ings in London. There must be a large accumulation of 
letters—some, no doubt, from my father and mother. I am 
only going for them. Good-bye. How kindly you have 
listened to me ! ” 

“ Shall we fix a day next week for seeing' the remains of 
the old Roman villa? I will ask Mrs, Cameron and hei 
niece to be of the party.” 

“Any day you please,” said Kenelm, joyfully. 
i6 


36 a 


KENELM CHILUNGLV 


CHAPTER XV. 

Kenelm did indeed find a huge pile of letters and notes 
on reaching his forsaken apartment in Mayfair—many of 
them merely invitations for days long past, none of them of 
interest except two from Sir Peter, three from his mother, 
and one from Tom Bowles. 

. Sir Peter’s were short. In the first he gently scolded 
Kenelm for going away without communicating any address ; 
and stated the acquaintance he had formed with Gordon, the 
favorable impression that young gentleman had made on 
him, the transfer of the;£'2o,ooo, and the invitation given to 
Gordon, the Traverses, and Lady Glenalvon. The second 
dated much later, noted the arrival of his invited guests, 
dwelt with warmth unusual to Sir Peter on the attractions 
of Cecilia, and took occasion to refer, not the less emphatic¬ 
ally because as it were incidentally, to the sacred promise 
which Kenelm had given him never to propose to a young 
lady until the case had been submitted to the examination 
and received the consent of Sir Peter. Come to Exmund-- 
ham, and if I do not give my consent to propose to Cecilia 
Travers, hold me a tyrant and rebel.” 

Lady Chillingly’s letters were much longer. They dwelt 
more complainingly on his persistence in eccentric habits 
—so exceedingly unlike other people, quitting London at 
the very height of the season, going without even a ser¬ 
vant nobody knew where : she did not wish to wound his 
feelings, but still those were not the ways natural to a 
young gentleman of station. If he had no respect for him¬ 
self, he ought to have some consideration for his parents, 
especially his poor mother. She then proceeded to com¬ 
ment on the elegant manners of Leopold Travers, and the 
good sense and pleasant conversation of Chillingly Gordon, 
a young man of whom any mother might be proud. From 
that subject she diverged to mildly querulous references to 
family matters. Parson John had expressed himself very 
rudely to Mr. Chillingly Gordon upon some books by a 
foreigner—Comte, or Count, or some such name—in which, 
so far as she could pretend to judge, Mr. Gordon had 
littered some very benevolent sentiments about humanity, 


tCENELM CHriLIErGLY. 


3^3 

U^hich, in the most insolent manner, Parson John had de¬ 
nounced as an^attack on religion. But really Parson John 
was too High Church for her. Having thus disposed of 
Parson John, she indulged some ladylike wailings on the 
singular costume of the three Miss Chillinglys. They had 
bee. asked by Sir Peter, unknown to her—so like him—to 
meet their guests ; to meet Lady Glenalvon and Miss Trav- 
(Ts, whose dress was so perfect (here she described their 
dress) — and they came in pea-green with pelerines of mock 
t)londe, and Miss Sally with corkscrew ringlets and a wreath 
of jessamine, “which no girl after eighteen would venture 
•■.o wear.” 

“But, my dear,” added her ladyship, “your poor father’s 
family are certainly great oddities. I have more to put up 
with than any one knows. I do my best to carry it off. I 
know my duties, and will do them.” 

Family grievances thus duly recorded and lamented, 
[.,ady Chillingly returned to her guests. 

Evidently unconscious of her husband’s designs on 
Cecilia, she dismissed her briefly: “ A very handsome 
young lady, though rather too blonde for her taste, and cer¬ 
tainly with an air distlnguL" Castly, she enlarged on the 
extreme pleasure she felt on meeting again the friend of her 
youth. Lady Glenalvon. 

“Not at all spoilt by the education of the great world, 
which, alas ! obedient to the duties of wife and mother, 
however little my sacrifices are appreciated, I have long 
since relinquished. Lady Glenalvon suggests turning that 
hideous old moat into a fetnery — a great improvement. Of 
course your poor father makes objections.” 

Tom’s letter was written on black-edged paper, and ran 
thus : 

“ Dear Sir,—S ince I had the honor to see you in London I have had a 
sad loss — my poor uncle is no more. He died very suddenly, after a hearty 
supper. One doctor says it was apoplexy, another valvular disease of the 
heart. He has left me his heir, after providing for his sister—no one had an 
idea that he had saved so much money. I am quite a rich man now. And I 
shall leave the veterinary business, which of late—since I took to reading, as 
you kindly advised—is not much to my liking. The principal corn-merchant 
here has offered to take me into partnership; and, from what I can see, it 
will be a very good thing, and a great rise in life. But, sir, I can’t settle to 
it at present — I can’t settle, as I would wish, to anything. I know you will 
not laugh at me when I say I have a strange longing to travel for awhile. I 
have been reading books of travels, and they get into my head more than any 
other books. But .T don’t think I could leave the country with a contented 
heart, till I have had just another look at you know whom—^just to see hel 


364 


ICEelm CHILLlMGiy. 


and know slie is happy. I am sure I could shake hands with Will, ahd 
kiss her little one without a wrong thought. What do you say to that, dear 
sir? You promised to write to me about Her. But I have not heard from 
you. Susy, the little girl with the flower ball, has had a loss too—the poor 
old man she lived with died within a few days of my dear uncle’s decease. 
Mother moved here, as I think you know, when the forge at Gravesleigh was 
S'dd ; and she is going to take Susy to live with her. She is quite fond of 
Susy. Pray let me hear from you soon, and do, dear sir, give me your ad¬ 
vice about travelling—and about Her. You see, I should like Her to think 
,©f me more kindly when I am in distant parts. 

“ I remain, dear sir, 

“Your grateful servant, 

“ T. Bowles. 

“ P. S.—Miss Travers has sent me Will’s last remittance. There is very 
little owed me now; so they must be thriving. I hope She is not over¬ 
worked.” 

On returning by the train that evening, Kenelm went 
to the house of Will Somers. The shop was already closed, 
but he was admitted by a trusty servant-maid to the parlor, 
where he found them all at supper, except indeed the baby, 
who had long since retired to the cradle, and the cradle had 
been removed up-stairs. Will and Jessie were very proud 
when Kenelm invited himself to share their repast, which, 
though simple, was by no means a bad one. When the 
meal was over and the supper-things removed, Kenelm drew 
his chair near to the glass door which led into a little gar¬ 
den very neatly kept—for it was Will’s pride to attend to it 
—before he sat down to his more professional work. The 
door was open, and admitted the coolness of the starlit air 
and the fragrance of the sleeping flowers. 

“You have a pleasant home here, Mrs. Somers.” 

“ We have, indeed, and know how to bless him we owe 
it to.” 

“ I am rejoiced to think that. How often when God de¬ 
signs a special kindness to us He puts the kindness into 
the heart of a fellow-man—perhaps the last fellow-man we 
should have thought of; but in blessing him we thank God 
who inspired him. Now, my dear friends, I know that you 
all three suspect me of being the agent whom God chose 
for His benefits. You fancy that it was from me came the 
loan which enabled you to leave Graveleigh and settle here 
You are mistaken—you look incredulous.” 

It could not be the Squire,” exclaimed Jessie. “Miss 
Travers assured me that it was neither he nor herself. Oh, 
it must be you, sir. I beg pardon, but who else could it be ?" 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


365 


“Your husband shall guess. Suppose, Will, that you 
had behaved ill to some one who was nevertheless dear to 
you, and on thinking over it afterwards felt very sorry and 
much ashamed of yourself, and suppose that later you had 
an opportunity and the power to render a service to tha* 
person, do you think you would do it ?” 

“ I should be a bad man if I did not.” 

“ Bravo ! And supposing that when the person you thus 
served came to know it was you who rendered the service, 
he did not feel thankful, he did not think it handsome of 
you thus to repair any little harm he might have done you 
before, but became churlish, and sore, and cross-grained, 
and with a wretched false pride said that because he had 
offended you once he resented your taking the liberty of 
befriending him now, would not you think that person an 
ungrateful fellow—ungrateful not only to you his fellow- 
man—that is of less moment—but ungrateful to the God 
who put it into your heart to be His human agent in the 
benefit received ?” 

“ Well, sir, yes, certainly,” said Will, with all the superior 
refinement of his intellect to that of Jessie, unaware of what 
Kenelm was driving at ; while Jessie, pressing her hands 
tightly together, turning pale, and with a frightened hur¬ 
ried glance towards Will’s face, answered impulsively : 

“ Oh, Mr. Chillingly, I hope you are not thinking, not 
speaking of Mr. Bowles ? ” 

“Whom else should I think or speak of?” 

Will rose nervously from his chair, all his features writh¬ 
ing. 

“ Sir, sir, this is a bitter blow—very bitter, very ! ” 

Jessie rushed to Will, flung her arms around him, and 
sobbed. 

Kenelm turned quietly to old Mrs. Somers, who had sus. 
pended the work on which since supper she had been em¬ 
ployed, knitting socks for the baby. 

“ My dear Mrs. Somers, what is the good of being a 
grandmother and knitting socks for baby grandchildren, if 
you cannot assure those silly children of yours that they are 
too happy in each other to harbor any resentment against a 
man who would have parted them and now repents?” 

Somewhat to Kenelm’s admiration, I dare not say sur¬ 
prise, old Mrs. Somers, thus appealed to, rose from her 
seat, and, with a dignity of thought or of feeling no one 
cpuld liave anticipated from the quiet peasant woman, ap‘ 


366 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


proached the wedded pair, lifted Jessie’s face with one hand, 
laid the other on Will’s head, and said, “ If you don’t long to 
see Mr. Bowles again and say ‘ the Lord bless you, sir ! ’ you 
don’t deserve the Lord’s blessing upon you.” Therewith she 
went back to her seat, and resumed her knitting. 

“ Thank Heaven, we have paid back the best part of the 
loan,” said Will, in very agitated tones, “and I think, with a 
little pinching, and with selling off some of the stock, we 
might pay the rest ; and then ”—and then he turned to Ken- 
elm— “and then, sir, we will” (here a gulp) “thank Mr. 
Bowles.” 

“ This don’t satisfy me at all. Will,” answered Kenelm ; 
‘ and since I helped to bring you two together, I claim the 
i^ht to say I would never have done so could I have guessed 
you could have trusted your wife so little as to allow a re¬ 
membrance of Mr. Bowles to be a thought of pain. You did 
not feel humiliated when you imagined that it was to me you 
owed some moneys which you have been honestly paying 
off. Well, then, I will lend you whatever trifle remains to 
discharge your whole debts to Mr. Bowles, so that you may 
sooner be able to say to him, ‘ Thank you.’ But, between you 
and me. Will, I think you will be a finer fellow and a manlier 
fellow if you decline to borrow that trifle of me; if you feel 
you would rather say ‘ Thank you ’to Mr. Bowles, without 
the silly notion that when you have paid him his money you 
owe him nothing for Ms kindness.” 

Will looked away, irresolutely. Kenelm went on : “I 
have received a letter from Mr. Bowles to-day. He has come 
into a fortune, and thinks of going abroad for a time ; but 
before he goes, he says, he should like to shake hands with 
Will, and be assured by Jessie that all his old rudeness is for¬ 
given. He had no notion that I should blab about the loan ; 
he wished that to remain always a secret. But between 
friends there need be no secrets. What say you, Will ? As 
head of this household, shall Mr. Bowles be welcomed here 
as a friend or not ?” 

“ Kindly welcome,” said old Mrs. Somers, looking up 
from the socks. 

“Sir,” said Will, with sudden energy, “look here ; you 
have never been in love, I daresay. If you had, you would 
not be so hard on me. Mr. Bowles was in love with my wife 
there. Mr. Bowles is a very fine man, and I am a cripple.” 

“Oh, Will! Will!” cried Jessie. 

“But I trust my wife with my whole heart and soul ; and 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


367 

now that the first pang is over, Mr. Bowles shall be, as 
mother says, kindly welcome—heartily welcome.” 

“ Shake hands. Now you speak like a man, Will. 1 
hope to bring Bowles here to supper before many days aro 
over.” 

And that night Kenelm wrote to Mr. Bowles : 

“ My dear Tom, —Come and spend a few days with me at Cromwell 
Lodge, Moleswich. Mr. and Mrs. Somers wish much to see you and to thank 
you. I could not remain forever degraded in order to gratify your whim. 
They would have it that I bought their shop, etc., and I was forced in self-de 
fence to say who it was. More on this and on travels when you come. 

“Your true friend, 

“K. C.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Mrs. Cameron was seated alone in her pretty drawing¬ 
room, with a book lying open, but unheeded, on her lap. 
She was looking away from its pages, seemingly into the 
garden without, but rather into empty space. 

To a very acute and practised observer, there was in her 
countenance an expression which baffled the common eye. 

To the common eye it was simply vacant ; the expression 
of a quiet, humdrum woman, who might have been thinking 
of some quiet humdrum household detail, found that too 
much for her, and was now not thinking at all. 

But to the true observer, there were in that face indica 
tions of a troubled past, still haunted with ghosts never to 
be laid at rest ; indications too of a character in herself that 
had undergone some revolutionary change ; it had not al¬ 
ways been the character of a woman quiet and humdrum. 
The delicate outlines of the lip and nostril evinced sensibil¬ 
ity, and the deep and downward curve of it bespoke habitua] 
sadness. The softness of the look into space did not tell ol 
a vacant mind, but rather of a mind subdued and overbur 
dened by the weight of a secret sorrow. There was also 
about her whole presence, in the very quiet which made hej 
prevalent external characteristic, the evidence of manners 
formed in a high-bred society-^the society in which quiet is 
connected with dignity and grace. The poor understood 
this better than her rich acquaintances at Moleswich, when 
they said, “ Mrs. Cameron was every inch a lady.” To judge 



KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


36S 

by her features, she must once have been pretty,—not a 
showy prettiness, but decidedly pretty. Now, as the features 
wore small, all prettiness had faded away in cold gray color¬ 
ings, and a sort of tamed and slumbering timidity of aspect. 
She was not only not demonstrative, but must liave imposed 
on herself as a duty the suppression of demonstration. Who 
could look at the formation of those lips and not see tliat 
they belonged to the nervous, quick, demonstrative temper¬ 
ament ? And yet, observing her again more closely, that 
suppressionof the constitutional tendency to candid betrayal 
of emotion would the more enlist your curiosity or interest; 
because, if physiognomy and phrenology have any truth in 
them, there was little strength in her character. In the 
womanly yieldingness of the short curved upper lip, the 
pleading timidity of the regard^ the disproportionate but ele¬ 
gant slenderness of the head between the ear and the neck, 
there were the tokens of one who cannot resist the will, per¬ 
haps the whim, of another whom she either loves or trusts. 

The book open on her lap is a serious book, on the doc¬ 
trine of grace, written by a popular clergyman of what is 
termed “ the Low Church.” She seldom read any but serious 
books, except where such care as she gave to Lily’s education 
compelled her to read “ Outlines of History and Geography,” 
or the elementary French books used in seminaries for young 
ladies. Yet if any one had decoyed Mrs. Cameron into 
familiar conversation, he would have discovered that she 
must early have received the education given to young ladies 
of station. She could speak and write French and Italian as 
a native. She had read, and still remembered, such classic 
authors in either language as are conceded to the use of 
pupils by the well-regulated taste of orthodox governesses. 
She had a knowledge of botany, such as botany was taught 
twenty years ago. I am not sure that, if her memory had 
been fairly aroused, she might not have come out strong in 
divinity and political economy, as expounded by the popular 
manuals of Mrs. Marcet. In short, you could see in her a 
thoroughbred English lady, who had been taught in a gen¬ 
eration before Lily’s, and immeasurably superior in culture 
to the ordinary run of English young ladies taught nowadays. 
So, in what after all are very minor accomplishments—now 
made major accomplishments—such as music, it was impos¬ 
sible that a connoisseur should hear her play on the piano 
without remarking, “ That woman has had the best masters 
of her time,” She could only play pieces that belonged tQ 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


369 


her generation. She had learned nothing since. In short, 
the whole intellectual culture had come to a dead stop long 
years ago, perhaps before Lily was born. 

Now, while she is gazing into space, Mrs. Braefield is an* 
nounced. Mrs. Cameron does not start from reverie. She 
never starts. But she makes a weary movement of annoy¬ 
ance, resettles herself, and lays the serious book on the sofa 
table. Elsie enters, young, radiant, dressed in all the per¬ 
fection of the fashion, that is, as ungracefully as in the eyes 
of an artist any gentlewoman can be ; but rich merchants 
who are proud of their wives so insist, and their wives, in that 
respect, submissively obey them. 

The ladies interchange customary salutations, enter into 
the customary preliminaries of talk, and, after a pause, Elsie 
begins in earnest. 

“ But shan’t I see Lily ? Where is she ? ” 

“ I fear she is gone into the town. A poor little boy, who 
did our errands, has met with an accident—fallen from a 
cherry-tree.” 

“ Which he was robbing ? ” 

“ Probably.” 

“And Lily has gone to lecture him ?” 

“ I don’t know as to that; but he is much hurt, and Lily 
has gone to see what is the matter with him.” 

Mrs. Braefield, in her frank outspoken way : “ I don’t 
take much to girls of Lily’s age in general, though I am pas¬ 
sionately fond of children. You know how I do take to Lily ; 
perhaps because she is so like a child. But she must be an 
anxious charge to you.” 

Mrs. Cameron replied by an anxious “No. She is still 
a child, a very good one ; why should I be anxious ? ” 

Mrs. Braefield, impulsively : “ Why, your child muse now 
be eighteen.” 

Mrs. Cameron : “ Eighteen—is it possible ! How time 
files ! though in a life so monotonous as mine, time does 
not seem to fly : it slips on like the lapse of water. Let me 
think—eighteen ? No, she is but seventeen—seventeen last 
May.” 

Mrs. Braefield : “ Seventeen ! A very anxious ap for a 
girl ; an age in which dolls cease and lovers begin.” 

Mrs. Cameron, not so languidly, but still quietly : “ Lily 
never cared much for dolls—never much for lifeless pets ; 
and as to lovers, she does not dream of them.” 

Mrs. Braefield, briskly: “ There is 00 age after sU in 

i6* 


370 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


which girls do not dream of lovers. And here another ques- 
tion arises. When a girl so lovely as Lily is eighteen next 
birthday, may not a lover dream of her ? ” 

Mrs. Cameron, with that wintry cold tranquillity of man 
ner which implies that in putting such questions an inter¬ 
rogator is taking a liberty : “ As no lover has appeared, I 
cannot trouble myself about his dreams.” 

Said Elsie, inly to herself, “ This is the stupidest woman 
I ever met! ” and aloud to Mrs. Cameron : Do you not 
think that your neighbor Mr. Chillingly is a very fine young 
man ? ” 

“ I suppose he would be generally considered so. He 
is very tall.” 

“ A handsome face ? ” 

“ Handsome, is it ? I dare say.” 

“ What does Lily say ? ” 

“ About what ? ” 

“ About Mr. Chillingly. Does she not think him hand 
some ? ” 

“ I never asked her.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Cameron, would it not be a very prett\ 
match for Lily ? The Chillinglys are among the oldest fami- 
lies in ‘ Burke’s Landed Gentry,’ and I believe his father, Sir 
Peter, has a considerable property.” 

For the first time in this conversation, Mrs. Cameron be« 
trayed emotion. A sudden flush overspread her counte¬ 
nance, and then left it paler than before. After a pause she 
recovered her accustomed composure, and replied, rudely ; 

“ It would be no friend to Lily who could put such no¬ 
tions into her head ; and there is no reason to suppose that 
they have entered into Mr. Chillingly’s.” 

“Would you be sorry if they did ? Surely you would like 
your niece to marry well ; and there are few chances of her 
doing so at Moleswich.” 

“ Pardon me, Mrs. Braefield, but the question of Lily’s 
marriage I have never discussed, even with her guardian. 
Nor, considering the childlike nature of her tastes and habits, 
rather than the years she has numbered, can I think the time 
has yet come for discussing it at all.” 

Elsie, thus rebuked, changed the subject to some news-, 
paper topic which interested the public mind at the moment,^ 
and very soon rose to depart. Mrs. Cameron detained the 
hand that her visitor held out, and said in low tones, which^ 
though embarrassed, were eyideritly e^r^iest, “ My Mrs» 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


371 


Braefteld, let me trust to your good sense and the affection 
with which you have honored my niece, not to incur the risk 
of unsettling her mind by a hint of the ambitious projects 
for her future on which you have spoken to me. It is ex¬ 
tremely improbable that a young man of Mr. Chillingly’s 
expectations would entertain any serious thoughts of mar¬ 
rying out of his own sphere of life, and-” 

“ Stop, Mrs. Cameron. I must interrupt you. Lily’s per¬ 
sonal attractions and grace of manner would adorn any sta¬ 
tion ; and have I not rightly understood you to say that 
though her guardian, Mr. Melville is, as we all know, a man 
who has risen above the rank of his parents, your niece. 
Miss Mordaunt, is, like yourself, by birth a gentlewoman ? ” 

“ Yes, by birth a gentlewoman,” said Mrs. Cameron, rais¬ 
ing her head with a sudden pride. But she added, with as 
sudden a change to a sort of freezing humility, “ What does 
that matter ? A girl without fortune, without connection, 
brought up in this little cottage, the ward of a professional 
artist, who was the- son of a city clerk, to whom she owes 
even the home she has found, is not in the same sphere of life 
as Mr. Chillingly, and his parents could not approve of such 
an alliance for him. It would be most cruel to her if you 
were to change the innocent pleasure she may take in the 
conversatio’Yi of a clever and well-informed stranger into the 
troubled interest which, since you remind me of her age, a 
girl even so childlike and beautiful as Lily might conceive in 
one represented to her as the possible partner of her life. 
Don’t commit that cruelty ; don’t—don’t, I implore you!” 

“ Trust me,” cried the warm-hearted Elsie, with tears rush¬ 
ing to her eyes. “ What you say so sensibly, so nobly, never 
struck me before. I do not know much of the world knew 
nothing of it till I married—and being very fond of Lily, and 
having a strong regard for Mr. Chillingly, I fancied I could 
not serve both better than—than—but I see now ; he is very 
young, very peculiar ; his parents might object, not to Lily 
herself, but to the circumstances you name. And you would 
not wish her to enter any family where she was not as 
cordially welcomed as she deserves to be. I am glad to have 
had this talk with you. Happily, I have done no mischief 
as yet. I will do none. I had come to propose an excursion 
to the remains of the Roman Villa,'some miles off, and to 
invite you and Mr. Chillingly. I will no longer try to bring 
him and Lily together.” 

“ Thank you. But you still misconstrue me. I Clo not 



372 


ICENELM CHILLINGLY. 


think that Lily cares half so much for Mr. Chillingly as she 
does for a new butterfly. I do not fear their coming to- 
gether, as you call it, in the light in which she now regards 
him, and in which, from all I observe, he regards her. My 
only fear is that a hint might lead her to regard him in 
another way, and that way impossible/’ 

Elsie left the house, extremely bewildered, and with a 
profound contempt for Mrs. Cameron’s knowledge of what 
may happen to two young persons “ brought together.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Now, on that very day, and about the same hour in 
which the conversation just recorded between Elsie and Mrs. 
Cameron took place, Kenelm, in his solitary noonday wan¬ 
derings, entered the burial-ground in which Lily had, some 
short time before, surprised him. And there he found her, 
standing beside the flower-border which she had placed round 
the grave of the child whom she had tended and nursed in 
vain. * 

The day was clouded and sunless ; one of those days that 
so often instill a sentiment of melancholy into the heart of 
an English summer. 

“ You come here too often. Miss Mordaunt,” said Kenelm 
very softly, as he approached. 

Lily turned her face to him, without any start of surprise, 
with no brightening change in its pensive expression—an 
expression rare to the mobile play of her features. 

“ Not too often, I promised to come as often as I could ; 
and, as I told you before, I have never broken a promise yet.” 

Kenelm made no answer. Presently the girl turned from 
fhe spot, and Kenelm followed her silently till she halted 
before the old tombstone with its effaced inscription. 

“See,” she said, with a faint smile, “I have put fresh 
flowers there. Since the day we met in this churchyard, I 
have thought much of that tomb, so neglected, so forgotten, 
and ”—she paused a moment, and went on abruptly,—“do 
you not often find that you are much too—what is the word ? 
ah ! too egotistical, considering, and pondering, and dream' 
ing greatly tOQ much about yourself T’ 




kENElM CttlLLlNGLY. 


373 


Yes, you are right there ; though, till you so accused 
me, my conscience did not detect it.” 

“ And don’t you find that you escape from being so haunt¬ 
ed by the thought of yourself, when you think of the dead ? 
they can never have any share in your existence here. When 
you say, ‘ I shall do this or that to-day when you dream, 
‘ I may be this or that to-morrow,’ you are thinking and 
dreaming, all by yourself, for yourself. But you are out of 
yourself, beyond yourself, when you'think and dream of the 
dead, who can have nothing to do with your to-day or your 
to-morrow.” 

As we all know, Kenelm Chillingly made it one of the 
rules of his life never to be taken by surprise. But when 
the speech I have written down came from the lips of that 
tamer of butterflies, he was so startled that all it occurred to 
him to say, after a long pause, was : 

“ The dead are the past ; and with the past rests all in the 
present or the future that can take us out of our natural 
selves. The past decides our present. By the past we divine 
our future. History, poetry, science, the welfare of states, 
the advancement of individuals, are all connected with tomb¬ 
stones of which inscriptions are effaced. You are right to 
honor the mouldered tombstones with fresh flowers. It is 
only in the companionship of the dead that one ceases to be 
an egotist.” 

If the imperfectly educated Lily had been above the quick 
comprehension of the academical Kenelm in her speech, so 
Kenelm was now above the comprehension of Lily. She too 
paused before she replied : 

“ If I knew you better, I think I could understand you 
better. I wish you knew Lion. I should like to hear you 
talk with him.” 

While thus conversing, they had left the burial-ground, 
and were in the pathway trodden by the common wayfarer. 

Lily resumed. 

“ Yes, I should so like to hear you talk with Lion.” 

“You mean your guardian, Mr. Melville.” 

“Yes, you know that.” 

“ And why should you like to hear me talk to him } ” 

“ Because there are some things in which I doubt if he 
was altogether right, and I would ask you to express my 
doubts to him ; you would, would not yon ? ” 

“ But why can you not express them yourself to your 
guardian Are you afraid of him ” 


374 


KENELM CmLUN’GLY. 


Afraid ? no indeed ! But—ah, how many people there 
are coming this way! There is some tiresome public meet 
ing in the town to-day. Let us take the ferry : the other 
side of the stream is much pleasanter, we shall have it more 
to ourselves.” 

Turning aside to the right while she thus spoke, Lily 
descended a gradual slope to the margin of the stream, oii 
which they found an old man dozily reclined in his ferry¬ 
boat. 

As, seated side by side, they were slowly borne over the 
still waters under a sunless sky, Kenelm would have renewed 
the subject which his companion had begun, but she shook 
her head, with a significant glance at the ferryman. Evi¬ 
dently what she had to say was too confidential to admit of 
a listener, not that the old ferryman seemed likely to take 
the trouble of listening to any talk that was not addressed 
to him. Lily soon did address her talk to him. “ So, 
Brown, the cow has quite recovered.” 

“ Yes, Miss, thanks to you, and God bless you. To think 
of your beating the old witch like that! ” 

“ ’Tis not I who beat the witch. Brown ; ’tis the fairy. 
Fairies, you know, are much more powerful than witches.” 

“So I find, Miss.” - 

Lily here turned to Kenelm. “ Mr. Brown has a very 
nice, milch cow that was suddenly taken very ill, and both 
he and his wife were convinced that the cow was bewitched.” 

“ Of course it were ; that stands to reason. Did not 
Mother Wright tell my old woman that she would repent 
of selling milk, and abuse her dreadful ? and was not the 
cow taken with shivers that very night ? ” 

“Gently, Brown. Mother Wright did not say that your 
wife would repent of selling milk, but of putting water into 
it.” 

“And how did she know that, if she was not a witch 
We have the best of customers among the gentlefolks, and 
never an one that complained.” 

“And,” answered Lily to Kenelm, unheeding this last ob¬ 
servation, which was made in a sullen manner, “ Brown had 
a horrid notion of enticing Mother Wright into his ferry-boat 
and throwing her into the water, in order to break the spel) 
upon the cow. But I consulted the fairies, and gave him a 
fairy charm to tie round the cow’s neck. And the cow is 
quite well now, you see. So, Brown, there was no necessity 
to throw Mother Wright into the water because she said you 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


375 


put some ot it into the milk. But,” she added, as the boat 
now touched the opposite bank, “shall I tell you. Brown, 
what the fairies said to me this morning ? ” 

“ Do, Miss.” 

“ It was this : If Brown’s cow yields milk without any 
water in it, and if water gets into it when the milk is sold, we, 
the fairies, will pinch Mr. Brown black and blue ; and when 
Brown has his next fit of rheumatics he must not look to the 
fairies to charm it away.” 

Herewith Lily dropped a silver groat into Brown’s hand, 
und sprang lightly ashore, followed by Kenelm. 

“ You have quite converted him, not only as to the 
existence, but as to the beneficial power, of fairies,” said 
Kenelm. 

“Ah,” answered Lily very gravely, “ Ah, but would it not 
be nice if there were fairies still ? good fairies, and one could 
fet at them ? tell them all that troubles and puzzles us, and 
vin from them charms against the witchcraft we practise on 
ourselves ? ” 

“ I doubt if it would be good for us to rely on such super- 
latural counsellors. Our own souls are^so boundless, that 
Ihe more we explore them the more we shall find worlds 
Spreading upon worlds into infinities ; and among the worlds 
Is Fairyland.” He added, inly to himself, “Am I not in 
Fairyland now ? ” 

“ Hush !”'whispered Lily. “Don’t speak more yet 
awhile. I am thinking over what you have just said, and 
trying to understand it.” 

Thus, walking silently, they gained the little summer¬ 
house which tradition dedicated to the memory of Izaak 
Walton. 

Lily entered it and seated herself. Kenelm took his place 
beside her. It was a small octagon building, which, judg¬ 
ing by its architecture, might have been built in the 
troubled reign of Charles I. ; the walls plastered within 
were thickly covered with names, and dates, and inscrip¬ 
tions in praise of angling, in tribute to Izaak, or with quota¬ 
tions from his books. On the opposite side they could see 
the lawn of Grasmere, with its great willows dipping into 
the water. The stillness of the place, with its associations 
of the angler’s still life, were in harmony with the quiet 
day, its breezeless air and cloud-vested sky. 

“You were to tell me your doubts in connection with 
your guardian, doubts if he were right in something which 


iCENELAf cniLtmCLY, 


376 

you left unexplained, which you could not yourself explain 
to him.” 

Lily started as from thoughts alien to the subject thua 
reintroduced. “ Yes, I cannot mention my doubts to him 
because they relate to me, and he is so good. I owe him o<L 
much that I could not bear to vex him by a word that might 
seem like reproach or complaint. You remember,” here 
she drew nearer to him ; and, with that ingenuous confiding 
look and movement which had, not unfrequently, enraptured 
him at the moment, and saddened him on reflection—too in¬ 
genuous, too confiding, for the sentiment with which he 
yearned to inspire her—she turned towards him her frank 
untimorous eyes, and laid her hand on his arm : “You re¬ 
member that I said in the burial-ground how much I felt 
that one is constantly thinking too much of one’s self. 
That must be wrong. In talking to you only about myself 
I know I am wrong; but I cannot help it, I must do so. Do 
not think ill of me for it. You see, I have not been brought 
up like other girls. Was my guardian right in that ? Per¬ 
haps if he had insisted upon not letting me have my own 
wilful way, if he had made me read the books which Mr. 
and Mrs. Emlyn wanted to force on me, instead of the 
poems and fairy-tales which he gave me, I should have had 
so much more to think of that I should have thought less of 
myself. You said that the dead were the past ; one forgets 
one’s self when one thinks of the dead. If I had read more 
of the past, had more subjects of interest in the dead whose 
history it tells, surely I should be less shut up, as it were, 
in my own small, selfish heart. It is only very lately I have 
thought of this, only very lately that I have felt sorrow and 
shame in the thought that I am so ignorant of what other 
girls know, even little Clemmy. And I dare not say this to 
Lion when I see him next, lest he should blame himself, 
when he only meant to be kind, and used to say, ‘ I don’t 
want Fairy to be learned, it is enough for me to think she is 
happy.’ And oh, I was so happy, till—till of late! ” 

“ Because till of late you only knew yourself as a child. 
But, now that you feel the desire of knowledge, childhood 
is vanishing. Do not vex yourself. With the mind which 
nature has bestowed on you, such learning as may fit you to 
converse with those dreaded ‘ grown-up folks ’ will come to 
you very easily and very quickly. You will acquire more in 
a month now than you would have acquired in a year when 
you were a child and task-work was loathed, not courted. 


JCkh^ELM CUlLlINGLV. 


377 


Vour aunt is evidently well instructed, and if I might 
venture to talk to her about the choice of books-" 

“ No, don’t do that. Lion would not like it.” 

“ Your guardian would not like you to have the educa 
tion common to other young ladies ? ” 

“ Lion forbade my aunt to teach me much that I rather 
wished to learn. She wanted to do so, but she has given it 
up at his wish. She only now teases me with those horrid 
French verbs, and that I know is a mere make-belief. Of 
course on Sunday it is different; then I must not read any¬ 
thing but the Bible and sermons. I don’t care so much for 
the sermons as I ought, but I could read the Bible all day, 
every weekdaj^ as well as Sunday ; and it is from the Bible 
that I learn that I ought to think less about myself.” 

Kenelm involuntarily pressed the little hand that lay so 
innocently on his arm. 

“ Do you know the difference between one kind of 
poetry and another ? ” asked Lily, abruptly. 

“ I am not sure. I ought to know when one kind is good 
and another kind is bad. But in that respect I find many 
people, especially professed critics, who prefer the poetry 
which I call bad to the poetry I think good.” 

“ The difference between one kind of poetry and another, 
supposing them both to be good,” said Lily positively, and 
with an air of triumph, “ is this—I know, for Lion explained 
it to me. In one kind of poetry the writer throws himself 
entirely out of his existence ; he puts himself into other ex¬ 
istences quite strange to his own. He may be a very good 
man, and he writes his best poetry about very wicked men ; 
he would not hurt a fly, but he delights in describing mur¬ 
derers. But in the other kind of poetry the writer does not 
put himself into other existences ; he expresses his own joys 
and sorrows, his own individual heart and mind. If he could 
not hurt a fly, he certainly could not make himself at home 
in the cruel heart of a murderer. There, Mr. Chillingly, 
that is the difference between one kind of poetry and 
another.” 

“Very true,” said Kenelm, amused by the girl’s critical 
definitions. “The difference between dramatic poetry and 
lyrical. But may I ask what that definition has to do with 
the subject into which you so suddenly introduced it?” 

“ Much ; for when Lion was explaining this to my aunt, 
he said, * A perfect woman is a poem ; but she can never be 
a poem of the one kind, never can make herself at home in 


37^ 


icemelm cmiLmciY. 


the hearts with which she has no connection, never feel an^i 
sympathy with crime and evil; she must be a poem of the 
other .kind, weaving out poetry from her own thoughts and 
fancies.’ And turning to me, he said, smiling, ‘That is the 
poem I wish Lily to be. Too many dry books would only 
spoil the poem.’ And you now see why I am so ignorant 
and so unlike other girls, and why Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn 
'ook down upon me.” 

“You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for ii^ was he who first 
'.aid to me, ‘ Lily Mordaunt is a poem.’ ” 

“ Did he ? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion 
ivill be ! ” 

“ Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence 
over your mind,” said Kenelm, with a jealous pang. 

“ Of course. I have neither father nor mother; Lion has 
been both to me. Aunty has often said, ‘You cannot be too 
grateful to your guardian ; without him I should have no 
home to shelter you, no bread to give you.’ He never said 
that—he would be very angry with aunty if he knew she had 
said it. When he does not call me Fairy he calls me Prin¬ 
cess. 1 would not displease him for the world.” 

“ He is very much older than you, old enough to be your 
father, I hear.” 

“I daresay. But if he were twice as old I could not love 
him better.” 

Kenelm smiled—the jealousy was gone. Certainly not 
thus could any girl, even Lily, speak of one with whom, how¬ 
ever she might love him, she was likely to fall in love. 

Lily now rose up, rather slowly and wearily. “ It is time 
to go home : aunty will be wondering what keeps me away. 
Come.” 

They took their way towards the bridge opposite to 
Cromwell Lodge, 

It was not for some minutes that either broke silence. 
Lily was the first to do so, and with one of those abrupt 
changes of topic which were common to the restless play of 
her secret thoughts. 

“You have father and mother still living, Mr. Chih 
lingly ? ” 

“Thank Heaven, yes.” 

“ Which do you love the best ? ” 

“ That is scarcely a fair question. I love my rwother very 
much ; but my father and I understand each other better 
than- 


k'EMEUr cmLLlN’GL Y. 


I see—it is so difficult to be understood. No one/ 
understands me.” 

“ I think I do.” 

Lily shook her head, with an energetic movement of dis¬ 
sent. 

“At least as well as a man can understand a young 
lady.” 

“What sort of young lady is Miss Cecilia Travers ?” 

“ Cecilia Travers ? When and how did you ever hear 
that such a person existed ?” 

“ That big London man whom they called Sir Thomas 
mentioned her name the day we dined at Braefieldville.” 

“ I remember—as having been at the Court ball.” 

“ He said she w^as very handsome.” 

“ So she is.” 

“ Is she a poem, too ? ” 

“ No ; that never struck me.” 

“ Mr. Emlyn, I suppose, would call her perfectly brought 
up—well educated. He would not raise his eyebrows at her 
as he does at me, poor me, Cinderella! ” 

“ Ah, Miss Mordaunt, you need not envy her. Again lei 
me say that you could very soon educate yourself to the 
level of any young ladies who adorn the Court balls.” 

“ Ay ; but then I should not be a poem,” said Lily, with 
a shy arch side-glance at his face. 

They were now on the bridge, and, before Kenelm could 
answer Lily resumed quickly, “You need not come any 
farther : it is out of your way.” 

“ I cannot be so disdainfully dismissed. Miss Mordaunt ; 1 
insist on seeing you to, at least, your garden gate.” 

Lily made no objection, and again spoke : 

“What sort of country do you live in when at home ? is 
it like this ? ” 

“Not so pretty ; the features are larger, more hill and 
dale and woodland ; yet there is one feature in our grounds 
which reminds me a little of this landscape : a light stream, 
somewhat wider, indeed, than your brooklet ; but here and 
there the banks are so like those by Cromwell Lodge that I 
sometimes start and fancy myself at home. I have a strange 
(ove for rivulets and all running waters, and in my foot- 
wanderings I find myself magnetically attracted towards 
them.” 

Lily listened with interest, and after a short pause said^ 
with a half-suppressed sigh, “ Your home is much finer tha« 


KEl^ELM cmLLmQLY. 


38d 

any place here, even than Braefieldville, is it not ? MrS^ 
Braefield says your father is very rich.” 

I doubt if he is richer than Mr. Braefield, and though 
his house may be larger than Braefieldville, it is not so 
smartly furnished, and has no such luxurious hot-houses 
and conservatories. My father’s tastes are like mine, very 
simple. Give him his library, and he would scarcely miss 
his fortune if he lost it. He has in this one immense ad¬ 
vantage over me.” 

“You would miss fortune ?” said Lily, quickly. 

“Not that; but my father is never tired of books. And 
shall I own it ? there are days when books tire me almost as 
much as they do you.” 

They were now at the garden gate. Lily with one hand 
on the latch held out the other to Kenelm, and her smile lit 
up the dull sky like a burst of sunshine, as she looked in his 
face and vanished. 


BOOK VII. 


CHAPTER I. 

Kenelm did not return home till dusk, and just as he 
was sitting down to his solitary meal there was a ring at the 
bell, and Mrs. Jones ushered in Mr. Thomas Bowles. 

Though that gentleman had never written to announce 
the day of his arrival, he was not the less welcome. 

“Only,” said Kenelm, “if you preserve the appetite I 
have lost, I fear you will find meagre fare to-day. Sit down, 
man.” 

“Thank you kindly, but I dined two hours ago in Lon 
don, and I really can eat nothing more.” 

Kenelm was too well-bred to press unwelcome hospitali¬ 
ties. In a very few minutes his frugal repast was ended, the 
cloth removed, the two men were left alone. 

“Your room is here, of course, Tom ; that was engaged 
from the day I asked you ; but you ought to have giv6n me 
a line to say when to expect you, so that I could have put 
our hostess on her mettle as to dinner or supper. You 
smoke still, of course ; light your pipe.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Chillingly, I seldom smoke now; but 
if you will excuse a cigar,” and Tom produced a very smart 
cigar-case. 

“Do as you would at home. I shall send word to Will 
Somers that you and I sup there to-morrow. You forgive 
me for letting out your secret. All straightforward now 
and henceforth. You come to their hearth as a friend, who 
will grow dearer to them both every year. Ah, Tom, this 
for woman seems to me a very wonderful thing. It may 
sink a man into such deeps of evil, and lift a man into such 
heights of good.” 

“ I don’t know as to the good,” said Tom, mournfully, 
and laying aside his cigar. 

“ Go on smoking ; I should like to keep you company; 
can you spare me one of your cigars ? ” 


382 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Tom offered his case. Kenelm extracted a cigar, lighted 
it, drew a few whiffs, and, when he saw that Tom had re¬ 
sumed his own cigar, recommenced conversation. 

“You don’t know as to the good ; but tell me honestly, 
do you think if you had not loved Jessie Wiles you would 
be as good a man as you are now?” 

“ If I am better than I was, it is not because of my love 
for the girl.” 

“ What then ? ” 

“ The loss of her.” 

Kenelm started, turned very pale, threw aside the cigar, 
rose and walked the room to and fro with very quick but 
very irregular strides. 

Tom continued quietly. “Suppose I had won Jessie and 
married her, I don’t think any idea of improving myself would 
have entered my head. My uncle would have been very 
much offended at my marrying a day-laborer’s daughter, 
and would not have invited me to Luscombe. I should have 
remained at Graveleigh, with no ambition of being more 
than a common farrier, an ignorant, noisy, quarrelsome 
man ; and if I could not have made Jessie as fond of me 
as I wished, I should not have broken myself of drinking; 
and I shudder to think what a brute I might have been, 
when I see in the newspapers an account of some drunken 
wife-beater. How do we know but what that wife-beater 
loved his wife dearly before marriage, and she did not care 
for him ? His home was unhappy, and so he took to drink 
and wife-beating.” 

“ I was right, then,” said Kenelm, halting his strides, 
“when I told you it would be a> miserable fate to be married 
to a girl whom you loved to distraction, and whose heart 
you could never warm to you, whose life you could never 
render happy,” 

“ So right! ” 

“Let us drop that part of the subject at present,” said 
Kenelm, reseating himself, “and talk about your wish to 
travel. Though contented that you did not marry Jessie, 
though you can now without anguish greet her as the wif(» 
of another, still there are some lingering thoughts of hei 
that make you restless ; and you feel that you could mor(v 
easily wrench yourself from these thoughts in a markec, 
change of scene and adventure, that you might bury therB, 
altogether in the soil of a strange land. Is it so ? ” 

“ Ay, something of that, sir^’' 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


383 


Then Kenelm roused himself to talk of foreign lands, 
and to map out a plan of travel that might occupy some 
months. He was pleased to find that Tom had already 
learned enough of French to make himself understood at 
least upon commonplace matters, and still more pleased to 
discover that he had been not only reading the proper 
guide-books or manuals descriptive of the principal places 
in Europe worth visiting, but that he had acquired an in¬ 
terest in the places ; interest in the fame attached to them 
by their history in the past, or by the treasures of art they 
contained. 

So they talked far into the night, and when Tom retired 
to his room Kenelm let himself out of the house noiselessly, 
and walked with slow steps towards the old summer-house 
in which he had sat with Lily. The wind had risen, scatter¬ 
ing the clouds that had veiled the preceding day, so that the 
stars were seen in far chasms of the sky beyond—seen for 
awhile in one place, and, when the swift clouds rolled over 
them there, shining out elsewhere. Amid the varying 
sounds of the trees, through which swept the night gusts, 
Kenelm fancied he could distinguish the sigh of the willow 
on the opposite lawn of Grasmere, 


CHAPTER II. 

Kenelm despatched a note to Will Somers early the next 
morning, inviting himself and Mr. Bowles to supper that 
evening. His tact was sufficient to make him aware that in 
such social meal there would be far less restraint for each 
and all concerned than in a more formal visit from Tom 
during the daytime, and when Jessie, too, was engaged with 
customers to the shop. 

But he led Tom through the town and showed him the 
shop itself, with its pretty goods at the plate-glass windows, 
and its general air of prosperous trade ; then he carried 
him off into the lanes and fields of the country, drawing out 
the mind of his companion, and impressed with great ad¬ 
miration of its marked improvement in culture, and in the 
trains of thought which culture opens out and enriches. 

But throughout all their multiform range of subject, 

Kenelm could perceive that Tom was still preoccupied anq 



3^4 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


abstracted ; the idea of the coming interview with Jessie 
weighed upon him. 

When they left Cromwell Lodge at nightfall, to repair 
to the supper at Will’s, Kenelm noticed that Bowles had 
availed himself of the contents of his carpet-bag, to make 
some refined alterations in his dress. The alterations be¬ 
came him. 

When they entered the parlor. Will rose from his chair 
with the evidence of deep emotion on his face, advanced to 
Tom, took his hand and grasped and dropped it without a 
word. Jessie saluted both guests alike, with drooping eye¬ 
lids and an elaborate curtsy. The old mother alone was 
perfectly self-possessed and up to the occasion. 

“ I am heartily glad to see you, Mr. Bowles,” said she, 
“ and so all three of us are, and ought to be; and if baby 
was older, there would be four.” 

“And where on earth have you hidden baby?’’cried 
Kenelm. “ Surely he might have been kept up for me to¬ 
night, when I was expected; the last time I supped here I 
took you by surprise, and therefore had no right to complain 
of baby’s want of respect to his parents’ friends.” 

Jessie raised the window-curtain, and pointed to the cra¬ 
dle behind it. Kenelm linked his arm in Tom’s, led him to 
the cradle, and, leaving him alone to gaze on the sleeping 
inmate, seated himself at the table, between old Mrs. 
Somers and Will. Will’s eyes were turned away towards 
the curtain, Jessie holding its folds aside, and the formid¬ 
able Tom, who had been the terror of his neighborhood, 
bending smiling over the cradle ; till at last he laid his 
large hand on the pillow, gently, timidly, careful not to 
awake the helpless sleeper, and his lips moved, doubtless 
with a blessing ; then he too came to the table, seating him¬ 
self, and Jessie carried the cradle up-stairs. 

Will fixed his keen intelligent eyes on his by-gone rival; 
and noticing the changed expression of the once aggressive 
countenance, the changed costume in which, without tinge 
of rustic foppery, there was the token of a certain gravity of 
station scarcely compatible with a return to old loves and 
old habits in the village world, the last shadow of jealousy 
vanished from the clear surface of Will’s affectionate 
nature. 

“Mr. Bowles,” he exclaimed impulsively, “you have a 
kind heart, and a good heart, and a generous heart. And 
your coming here to-night on this friendly visit is an honor 


KENELM CIIILLINGL Y. 


385 


which—which “ Which,” interrupted Kenelm, compas¬ 
sionating Will’s embarrassment, “ is on the side of us single 
men. In this free country a married man who has a male 
baby may be father to the Lord Chancellor or the Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury. But—well, my friends, such a 
meeting as we have to-night does not come often ; and after 
supper let us celebrate it with a bowl of punch. If we have 
headaches the next morning, none of us will grumble.” 

Old Mrs. Somers laughed out jovially. ‘‘ Bless you, 
sir, I did not think of the punch ; I will go and see about 
it; ” and, baby’s socks still in her hands, she hastened from 
the room. 

What with the supper, what with the punch, and what 
with Kenelm’s art of cheery talk on general subjects, all re¬ 
serve, all awkwardness, all shyness between the convivialists, 
rapidly disappeared. Jessie mingled in the talk ; perhaps 
^excepting only Kenelm) she talked more than the others, 
artlessly, gayly, no vestige of the old coquetry, but nowand 
then with a touch of genteel finery, indicative of her rise in 
life, and of the contact of the fancy shopkeeper with noble 
customers. It was a pleasant evening—Kenelm had re¬ 
solved that it should be so. Not a hint of the obligations 
to Mr. Bowles escaped until Will, following his visitor to 
the door, whispered to Tom, “You don’t want thanks, and 
I can’t express them. But when we say our prayers at 
night, we have always asked God to bless him who brought 
us together, and has since made us so prosperous—I mean 
Mr. Chillingly. To-night there will be another besides him 
lor whom we shall pray, and for whom baby, when he is 
older, will pray too.” 

Therewith Will’s voice thickened ; and he prudently re¬ 
ceded, with no unreasonable fear lest the punch might make 
him too demonstrative of emotion if he said more. 

Tom was very silent on the return to Cromwell Lodge ; 
it did not seem the silence of depressed spirits, but rather 
of quiet meditation, from which Kenelm did not attempt to 
rouse him. 

It was not till they reached the garden pales of Grasmere 
that Tom, stopping short, and turning his face to Kenelm, 
said : 

“ I am very grateful to you for this evening—very.” 

“ It has revived no painful thoughts, then ? ” 

“ No ; I feel so much calmer in mind than I ever bC' 
iieved I could have been, af^r seeing her again,” 


386 


KENELM CHILLINGL K 


“ Is it possible ! ” said Keiielm, to himself. “ How should 
I feel if I ever saw in Lily the wife of another man, the 
mother of his child ?” At that question he shuddered, and 
an involuntary groan escaped from his lips. Just then, 
having, willingly in those precincts, arrested his steps when 
Tom paused to address him, something softly touched the 
arm which he had rested on the garden pale. He looked 
and saw that it was Blanche. The creature, impelled by its 
instincts towards night-wanderings, had, somehow or other, 
escaped from its own bed within the house, and, hearing a 
voice that had grown somewhat familiar to its ear, crept 
from among the shrubs behind upon the edge of the pale. 
There it stood, with arched back, purring low as in pleased 
salutation. 

Kenelm bent down and covered with kisses the blue rib¬ 
bon which Lily’s hand had bound round the favorite’s neck. 
Blanche submitted to the caress for a moment, and then, 
catching a slight rustle among the shrubs, made by some 
awaking bird, sprang into the thick of the quivering leaves 
and vanished. 

Kenelm moved on with a quick impatient stride, and no 
further words were exchanged between him and his com¬ 
panion till they reached their lodging and parted for the 
night. 


CHAPTER III. 

The next day, towards noon, Kenelm and his visitor, 
walking together along the brook-side, stopped before Izaak 
Walton’s summer-house, and, at Kenelm’s suggestion, en¬ 
tered therein to rest, and more at their ease to continue the 
conversation they had begun. 

“ You have just told me,” said Kenelm, “ that you feel as 
if a load were taken off your heart, now that you have again 
met Jessie Somers, and that you find her so changed that 
she is no longer the woman you loved. As to the change, 
whatever it be, I own it seems to me for the better, in person, 
in manners, in character: of course I should not say this if 
I were not convinced of your perfect sincerity when you as¬ 
sured me that you are cured of the old wound. But I feel 
so deeply interested in the question how a fervent love, 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 387 

once entertained and enthroned in the heart of a man so 
earnestly affectionate and so warm-blooded as yourself, can 
be, all of a sudden, at a single interview, expelled or trans¬ 
ferred into the calm sentiment of friendship, that I pray 
you to explain.” 

“That is what puzzles me, sir,” answered Tom, passing 
his hand over his forehead. “ And I don’t know if I can 
explain it.” 

“Think over it, and try.” 

Tom mused for some moments, and then began. “You 
see, sir, that I was a very different man myself when I fell 
in love with Jessie Wiles, and said, ‘ Come what may, that 
girl shall be my wife. Nobody else shall have her.’ ” 

“Agreed ; go on.” 

“ But while I was becoming a different man, when I 
thought of her,—and I was always thinking of her,—I still 
pictured her to myself as the same Jessie Wiles ; and though, 
when I did see her again at Graveleigh, after she had mar¬ 
ried—the day ” 

“You saved her from the insolence of the squire.” 

“—She was but very recently married. I did not realize 
her as married. I did not see her husband, and the differ¬ 
ence within myself was only then beginning. Well, so all 
the time I was reading and thinking, and striving to improve 
my old self at Luscombe, still Jessie Wiles haunted me as 
the only girl I had ever loved, ever could love ; I could not 
believe it possible that I could ever marry any one else. 
And lately I have been much pressed to marry some one 
else ; alT my family wish it ; but the face of Jessie rose up 
before me, and I said to myself, ‘ I should be a base man if 
I married one woman, while I could not get another woman 
out of my head.’ I must see Jessie once more, must learn 
whether her face is now really the face that haunts me when 
I sit alone ; and I have seen her, and it is not that face ; it 
may be handsomer, but it is not a girl’s face, it is the face 
of a wife and a mother. And, last evening, while she was 
talking with an open-heartedness which I had never found 
in her before, I became strangely conscious of the difference 
in myself that had been silently at work within the last two 
years or so. Then, sir, when I was but an ill-conditioned, 
uneducated, petty village farrier, there was no inequality 
between me and a peasant girl; or rather, in all things ex¬ 
cept fortune, the peasant girl was much above me. But 
Ust evening I asked myself, on watching her and listening 


^88 


KEN EL M CHI I . LINGL K 


to her talk, ‘ If Jessie were now free, should I press her to 
be my wife ? ’ and I answered myself, ‘ No.’ ” 

Kenelm listened with rapt attention, and exclaimed 
briefly, but passionately, “ Why ?” 

“ It seems as if I were giving myself airs to say why. 
But, sir, lately I have been thrown among persons, women 
as well as men, of a higher class than I was born in ; and in 
a wife I should want a companion up to their mark, and 
who would keep me up to mine ; and ah, sir, I don’t feel as 
if I could find that companion in Mrs. Somers.” 

“ I understand you now, Tom. But you are spoiling a 
silly romance of mine. I had fancied the little girl with the 
flower face would grow up to supply the loss of Jessie ; and, 
I am so ignorant of the human heart, I did think it would 
take all the years required for the little girl to open into a 
woman, before the loss of the old love could be supplied. I 
see now that the poor little child with the flower face has no 
chance.” 

“Chance? Why, Mr. Chillingly,” cried Tom, evidently 
much nettled, “ Susy is a dear little thing, but she is scarcely 
more than a mere charity girl. Sir, when I last saw you in 
London you touched on that matter as if I were still the 
village farrier’s son who might marry a village laborer’s 
daughter. But,” added Tom, softening down his irritated 
tone of voice, “even if Susy were a lady born, I think a man 
would make a very great mistake if he thought he could 
bring up a little girl to regard him as a father, and then, 
when she grew up, expect her to accept him as a lover.” 

“Ah, you think that! ” exclaimed Kenelm, eagerly, and 
turning eyes that sparkled with joy towards the lawn of 
Grasmere. “You think that ; it is very sensibly said—weR 
—and you have been pressed to marry, and have hung back 
till you had seen again Mrs. Somers. Now you will be bet¬ 
ter disposed to such a step ; tell me about it.” 

“ I said, last evening, that one of the principal capitalists 
at Luscombe, the leading corn-merchant, had offered to take 
me into partnership. And, sir, he has an only daughter ; 
she is a very amiable girl, has had a first-rate education, and 
has such pleasant manners and way of talk, quite a lady. If 
I married her I should soon be the first man at Luscombe, 
and Luscombe, as you are no doubt aware, returns two mem¬ 
bers to Parliament ; who knows but that some day the far¬ 
rier’s son might be-” Tom stopped abruptly—abashed 


l^EMELM CHILLWGLY, 389 

at the aspiring thought which, while speaking, had deepened 
his hardy color and flashed from his honest eyes. 

“Ah!” said Kenelm, almost mournfully. “Is it so? 
must each man in his life play many parts ? Ambition suc¬ 
ceeds to love, the reasoning brain to the passionate heart. 
True, you are changed ; my Tom Bowles is gone.” 

“ Not gone in his undying gratitude to you, sir,” said 
Tom, with great emotion. “Your Tom Bowles would give 
up all his dreams of wealth or of rising in life, and go 
through fire and water, to serve the friend who first bid him 
be a new Tom Bowles ! Don’t despise me as your own 
work : you said to me, that terrible day when madness was 
on my brow and crime within my heart, ‘ I will be to you 
the truest friend man ever found in man.’ So you have been. 
You commanded me to read, you commanded me to think, 
you taught me that body should be the servant of mind.” 

“ Hush, hush 1 times are altered ; it is you who can 
teach me now. Teach me, teach me ; how does ambition 
replace love ? How does the desire to rise in life become the 
all-mastering passion, and, should it prosper, the all-atoning 
consolation of our life ? We can never be as happy, though 
we rose to the throne of the Caesars, as we dream that we 
could have been had Heaven but permitted us to dwell in 
the obscurest village, side by side with the woman we love.” 

Tom was exceedingly startled by such a burst of irrepres¬ 
sible passion from the man who had told him that, though 
friends were found only once in a life, sweethearts were as 
plentiful as blackberries,. 

Again he swept his hand over his forehead, and replied 
hesitatingly. “ I can’t pretend to say what may be the case 
with others. But to judge by my own case it seems to be 
this : a young man who, out of his own business, has noth¬ 
ing to interest or excite him, finds content, interest, and ex¬ 
citement when he falls in love ; and then, whether for good 
or ill, he thinks there is nothing like love in the world ; he 
don’t care a fig for ambition then. Over and over again did 
my poor uncle ask me to come to him at Luscombe, and re¬ 
present all the worldly advantage it wo-uld be to me ; but I 
could not leave the village in which Jessie lived, and, besides, 
I felt myself unfit to be anything higher than I was. But 
when I had been some time at Luscombe, and gradually got 
accustomed to another sort of people and another sort of 
talk, then I began to feel interest in the same objects that 
interested those about me ; and when, partly by mixing 


390 


KEN ELM CiriirJNGLY, 


with better-educated men, and partly by the pains I took to 
educate myself, I felt that I might now more easily rise above 
my uncle’s rank of life than two years ago I could have risen 
above a farrier’s forge, then the ambition to rise did stir in 
me and grew stronger every day. Sir, I don’t think you 
can wake up a man’s intellect but what you wake with it 
emulation. And, after all, emulation is ambition.” r 

“Then I suppose I have no emulation in me, for cer¬ 
tainly I have no ambition.” 

“ That I can’t believe, sir; Other thoughts may cover it 
over and keep it down for a time ; but, sooner or later, it 
will force its way to the top, as it has done with me. To 
get on in life, to be respected by those who know you, more 
and more as you grow older, I call that a manly desire. I 
am sure it comes as naturally to an Englishman as — as ” 

“As the wish to knock down some other Englishman 
who stands in his way does. I perceive now that you were 
always a very ambitious man, Tom ; the ambition has only 
taken another direction. Caesar might have been 

‘ But the first wrestler on the green.’ 

And now, I suppose, you abandon the idea of travel ; you 
will return to Luscombe, cured of all regret for the loss 
of Jessie ; you will marry the young lady you mention, and 
rise through progressive steps of alderman and mayor into 
the rank of member for Luscombe.” 

“All that may come in good time,” answered Tom, not 
resenting the tone of irony in which he was addressed, “but 
I still intend to travel ; a year so spent must render me ail 
the more fit for any station I aim at. I shall go back to 
Luscombe to arrange my affairs, come to terms with Mr. 
Leland, the corn-merchant, against my return, and-” 

“ The young lady is to wait till then.” 

“ Emily.” 

“ Oh, that is the name ? Emily ! a much more elegant 
name than Jessie.” 

“ Emily,” continued Tom, with an unruffled placidity 
which, considering the aggravating bitterness for which 
Kenelm had exchanged his wonted dulcitudes of indiffer- 
entism, was absolutely saintlike, “ Emily knows that if she 
were my wife I should be proud of her, and will esteem me 
the more if she feels how resolved I am that she shall never 
be ashamed of me.” 



KEK^ELM CIIlLLmcLY. 


“Pardon me, Tom,” said Kenelm, softened, and laying 
his hand on his friend’s shoulder with brother-like tender¬ 
ness. “ Nature has made you a thorough gentleman ; and 
you could not think and speak more nobly if you had come 
into the world as the head of all the Howards.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Tom went away the next morning. He declined to see 
Jessie again, saying, curtly, “ I don’t wish the impression 
made on me the other evening to incur a chance of being 
weakened.” 

Kenelm was in no mood to regret his friend’s departure. 
Despite all the improvement in Tom’s manners and culture, 
which raised him so much nearer to equality with the polite 
and instructed heir of the Chillinglys, Kenelm would have 
felt more in sympathy and rapport with the old disconsolate 
fellow-wanderer who had reclined with him on the grass, 
listening to the Minstrel’s talk or verse, than he did with 
the practical, rising citizen of Luscombe. To the young 
lover of Lily Mordaunt there was a discord, a jar, in the 
knowledge that the human heart admits of such well-rea¬ 
soned, well-justified transfers of allegiance ; a Jessie to-day, 
or an Emily to-morrow —reine est morte; vive la reine ! ” 

An hour or two after Tom had gone, Kenelm found him¬ 
self almost mechanically led towards Braefieldville. He 
had instinctively divined Elsie’s secret wish with regard to 
himself and Lily, however skilfully she thought she had 
concealed it. 

At Braefieldville he should hear talk of Lily, and in the 
scenes where Lily had been first beheld. 

He found Mrs. Braefield alone in the drawing-room, 
seated by a table covered with flowers, which she was as¬ 
sorting and intermixing for the vases to which they were 
destined. 

It struck him that her manner was more reserved than 
usual, and somewhat embarrassed ; and when, after a few 
preliminary matters of small talk, he rushed boldly in medias 
res^ and asked if she had seen Mrs. Cameron lately, she re¬ 
plied, briefly, “Yes, I called there the other day,” and im 



KEN^LM CHlLLmCLY. 


:‘9^ 

mediately changed the conversation to the troubled state ol 
the Continent. 

Kenelm was resolved not to be so put oft, and presently 
returned to the charge. 

“ The other day you proposed an excursion to the site 
of the Roman villa, and said you would ask Mrs. Cameron 
to be of the party. Perhaps you have forgotten it ?” 

“No ; but Mrs. Cameron declines. We can ask the Em- 
lyns instead. He will be an excellent cicero7ie'' 

“ Excellent! Why did Mrs. Cameron decline 1 ” 

Elsie hesitated, and then lifted her clear brown eyes to 
his face, with a sudden determination to bring matters to a 
crisis. 

“ I cannot say why Mrs. Cameron declined, but in de¬ 
clining she acted very wisely and very honorably. Listen 
to me, Mr. Chillingly. You know how highly I esteem and 
how cordially I like you, and judging by what I felt for 
some weeks, perhaps longer, after we parted at Tor Had- 

ham-” Here again she hesitated, and, with a half laugh 

and a slight blush, again went resolutely on. “ If I were 
Lily’s aunt or elder sister, I should do as Mrs. Cameron 
does ; decline to let Lily see much more of a young gentle¬ 
man too much above her in wealth and station for-” 

“ Stop,” cried Kenelm, haughtily. “ I cannot allow that 
any man’s wealth or station would warrant his presumption 
in thinking himself above Miss Mordaunt.” 

“Above her in natural grace and refinement, certainly 
not. But in the world there are other considerations, which 
perhaps Sir Peter and Lady Chillingly might take into ac¬ 
count.” 

“You did not think of that before you last saw Mrs. 
Cameron.” 

“ Honestly speaking, I did not. Assured that Miss Mor-. 
daunt was a gentlewoman by birth, I did not sufficiently re^ 
fleet upon other disparities.” 

“ You know, then, that she is by birth a gentlewoman ? ” 

“ I only know it as all here do, by the assurance of Mrs. 
Cameron, whom no one could suppose not to be a lady. 
But there are different degrees of lady and of gentleman, 
which are little heeded in the ordinary intercourse of society, 
but become very perceptible in questions of matrimonial 
alliance ; and Mrs. Cameron herself says very plainly that 
sue does not consider her niece to belong to that station in 
life from which Sir Peter and Lady Chillingly would natur- 



ivENELM CHILiJNGLV, 


393 


filly wish their son should select his bride. Then ” (holding 
out her hand) “ pardon me if I have wounded or offended 
you. I speak as a true friend to you and to Lily both. 
Earnestly I advise you, if Miss Mordaunt be the cause of 
your lingering her<e, earnestly I advise you to leave while 
yet in time for her peace of mind and your own.” 

“ Her peace of mind,” said Kenelm, in low faltering 
tones, scarcely hearing the rest of Mrs. Braefield’s speech. 
“ Her peace of mind. Do you sincerely think that she 
cares for me—could care for me—if I stayed?” 

“ I wish I could answer you decidedly. I am not in the 
secrets of her heart. I can but conjecture that it might be 
dangerous for the peace of any young girl to see too much 
of a man like yourself, to divine that he loved her, and not 
to be aware that he could not, with the approval of his 
family, ask her to become his wife.” 

Kenelm bent his face down, and covered it with his right 
hand. He did not speak for some moments. Then he rose, 
the fresh cheek very pale, and said : 

“You are right. Miss Mordaunt’s peace of mind must 
be the first consideration. Excuse me if I quit you thus ab¬ 
ruptly. You have given me much to think of, and I can 
only think of it adequately when alone.” 


CHAPTER V. 

KENELM CHILLINGLY TO SIR PETER CHILLINGLY. 

“ My Father, my dear Father, —This is no reply to your letters. I 
know not if itself can be called a letter. I cannot yet decide whether it be 
meant to reach your hands. Tired with talking to myself, I sit down to talk 
to you. Often have I reproached myself for not seizing every fitting occasion 
to let you distinctly know how warmly I love, how deeply I reverence 
you ; you, O friend, O father. But we Chillinglys are not a demonstrative 
race. I don’t remember that you, by words, ever expressed to me the truth 
that you love your son infinitely more than he deserves. Yet, do I not know 
that you would send all your beloved old books to the hammer, rather than I 
should pine in vain for some untried, if sinless, delight on which I had set my 
heart ? And do you not know, equally well, that I would part with all my 
heritage, and turn day-laborer, rather than you should miss the beloved old 
books ? 

“ That mutual knowledge is taken for granted in all that my heart yearns 
to pour forth to your own. But, if I divine aright, a day is coming when, as 
between you and me, there must be a sacrifice on the part of one to the other. 

17 * 



394 


KEN ELM CHILLING L K 


Jf so, I implore that tlie sacrifice may come from you. How is this? t4o\i» 
am I so ungenerous, so egotistical, so selfish, so ungratefully unmindful of all 
1 already owe to you, and may never repay ? 1 can only answer, ‘ It is fate, 

it is nature, it is love ’- 

******** ^ 

“ Here I must break off. It is midnight, the moon halts opposite to the 
window at which I sit, and on the stream that runs below there is a long nar¬ 
row track on which every wave trembles in her light ; on either side of the 
moonlit track all the other waves, running equally to their grave in the in¬ 
visible deep, seem motionless and dark. I can write no more.” 

Dated two days later. 

“They say she is beneath us in wealth and station. Are we, my father— 
we, two well-born gentlemen—covetersof gold or lackeys of the great ? When 
I was at College, if there were any there more heartily despised than another, 
it was the parasite and the tuft-hunter ; the man who chose his friends accord¬ 
ing as their money or their rank might be of use to him. If so mean where 
the choice is so little important to the happiness and career of a man v ho has 
something of manhood in him, how much more mean to be the parasite and 
tuft-hunter in deciding what woman to love, what woman to select as the 
sweetener and ennobler of one’s every-day life ! Could she be to my life that 
sweetener, that ennobler? I firmly believe it. Already life itself has gained 
a charm that I never even guessed in it before ; already I begin, though as yet 
but faintly and vaguely, to recognize that interest in the objects and aspira¬ 
tions of my fellow-men, which is strongest in those whom posterity ranks 
among its ennoblers. In this quiet village it is true that I might find examples 
enough to prove that man is not meant to meditate upon life, but to take ac¬ 
tive part in it, and in that action to find ils ines. But I doubt if I should have 
profited by such examples, if I should not have looked on this small stage of 
the world as I have looked on the large one, with the indifferent eyes of a 
spectator on a trite familiar play carried on by ordinary actors, had not my 
whole being suddenly leapt out of philosophy into passion, and, at once made 
warmly human, sympathized with humanity wherever it burned and glowed. 
Ah, is there to be any doubt of what station, as mortal bride, is due to her— 
her, my princess, my Fairy? If so, how contented you shall be, my father, 
with the worldly career of your son ! how perseveringly he will strive (and 
when did perseverance fail ?) to supply all his deficiencies of intellect, genius, 
knowledge, by the energy concentrated on a single object which—more than 
intellect, genius, knowledge, unless they attain to equal eriergy equally con¬ 
centrated—commands what the world calls honors ! 

“ V^es, with her, with her as the bearer of my name, with her to whom I, 
whatever I might do of good or of great, could say, ‘ It is thy work,’ I prom¬ 
ise that you shall bless the day when you took to your arms a daughter. 

“ ‘Thou art in contact with the beloved in all that thou feelest elevated 
above thee ’ So it is written by one of those weird Germans who search in 
our bosoms for the seeds of buried truths, and conjure them into flowers be¬ 
fore we ourselves were even aware of the seeds. 

“ Every thought that associates itself with my beloved seems to me born 
with wings. 

I have just seen her, just parted from her. Since I had been told—kindly, 
wisely told—that I had no right to hazard her peace of mind unless I were 



KEKELM CHILLWGL K 


39S 


privileged to woo and to win her, I promised myself that 1 Would shun her 
presence until I had bared my heart to you, as I am doing now, and received 
that privilege from yourself; for even had I never made the proipise that 
binds my honor, your consent and blessing must lialluw my choice. I do not 
feel as if I could dare to ask one so innocent and fair to wed an ungrateful, 
disobedient son. But this evening I met her, unexpectedly, at the vicar’s, an 
excellent man, from whom I have learned much ; whose precepts, whose ex¬ 
ample, whose delight in his home, and his life at once active and serene, are in 
harmony with my own dreams when I dream of her. 

“I will tell you the name of the beloved—hold, it is as yet a profound 
secret between you and me. But oh for the day when I may hear you call 
her by that name, and print on her forehead the only kiss by man of which I 
should not be jealous ! 

“It is Sunday, and after the evening service it is my friend’s custom to 
gather his children round him, and, without any formal sermon or discourse, 
engage their interests in subjects harmonious to associations with the sanctity 
of the day ; often not directly bearing upon religion ; more often, indeed, 
playfully starting from some little incident or some slight story-book which 
had amused the children in the course of the past week, and then gradually 
winding into reference to some sweet moral precept or illustration from 
some divine example. It is a maxim with him that, while much that children 
must learn they can only learn well through conscious labor and as positive 
task-work, yet Religion should be connected in their minds, not with labor 
and task-work, but should become insensibly infused into their habits of 
thought, blending itself with memories and images of peace and love ; with 
the indulgent tenderness of the earliest teachers, the .sinless mirthfulness of the 
earliest home ; with consolation in after-sorrows, support through after-trials, 
and never parting company with its twin sister, Hope. 

“I entered the vicar’s room this evening just as the group had collected 
round him. By the side of his wife sat a lady in whom I feel a keen interest. 
Her face wears that kind of calm which speaks of the lassitude becjueathed by 
sorrow. She is the aunt of my beloved one. Lily had nestled herself on a 
low ottoman at the good pastor’s feet, with one of his little girls, round 
whose shoulder she had wound her arm. She is much more fond of the com¬ 
panionship of children than that of girls of her own age. The vicar’s wife, a 
very clever woman, once, in my hearing, took her to task for this preference, 
asking her why she persisted in grouping herself with mere infants who could 
teach her nothing. Ah ! could you have seen the innocent, angel-like ex¬ 
pression of her face when she answered simply, ‘ I suppose because with them 
I feel .safer, I mean nearer to God.’ 

“ Mr. Emlyn—that is the name of the vicar—deduced his homily this even¬ 
ing from a pretty fairy-tale w'hich Lily had been telling to his children the 
day before, and which he drew her on to repeat. 

“Take, in brief, the substance of the story :— 

“ Once on a time, a king and queen made themselves very unhappy be¬ 
cause they had no heir to their throne ; and they prayed for one ; and lo, on 
some bright summer morning, the Queen, waking from sleep, saw a cradle 
beside her bed, and in the cradle a beautiful sleeping babe. Great day 
throughout the kingdom ! But as the infant grew up, it became very way¬ 
ward and fretful; it lost its beauty, it would not learn its lessons, it was 
as naughty as a child could be. The parents were very sorrowful ; the heir, 
so longed for, promised to be a great plague to themselves and their subjects. 
At last, one day, to add to their trouble, two little bumps appeared on tht 


39 ^ 


KEN ELM CKILLINCLY. 


Prince’s shoulders. All the doctors were consulted as to the cause and the 
cure of this deformity. Of course they tried the effect of back-bands and steel 
machines, which gave the poor little Prince great pain, and made him more 
unamiable than ever. The bumps, nevertheless, grew larger, and as they in¬ 
creased, so the Prince sickened and pined away. At last a skilful surgeon 
proposed, as the only chance of saving the Prince’s life, that the bumps should 
be cut out, and the next morning was fixed for that operation. But at night 
the Queen saw, or dreamed she saw, a beautiful shape standing by her bedside. 
And it said to her reproachfully, ‘ Ungrateful woman ! How wouldst thou 
repay me for the precious boon that my favor bestowed on thee ? In me be¬ 
hold the Queen of the Fairies. For the heir to thy kingdom, I consigned to 
thy charge an infant from Fairyland, to become a blessing to thee and to thy 
people; and thou wouldst inflict upon it a death of torture by the surgeon’s 
knife.’ And the Queen answered ‘ Precious indeed thou mayest call the boon ! 
A miserable, sickly, feverish changeling.’ 

“ ‘ Art thou so dull,’ said the beautiful visitant, ‘ as not to comprehend 
that the earliest instincts of the fairy child would be tliose of discontent at the 
exile from its native home ? and in that discontent it would have pined itself 
to death, or grown up soured and malignant, a fairy still in its power, but a 
fairy of wrath and evil, had not the strength of its inborn nature sufficed to 
develop the growth of its wings. That which thy blindness condemns as 
the deformity of the human-born, is to the fairy-born the crowning perfection 
of its beauty. Woe to thee if thou suffer not the wings of the fairy-child to 
grow ! ’ 

“ And the next morning the Queen sent away the surgeon when he came 
with his horrible knife, and removed the back-board and the steel machines 
from the Prince’s shoulders, though all the doctors predicted that the child 
would die. And from that moment the royal heir began to recover bloom 
and health. And when at last, out of those deforming bumps, budded delicate¬ 
ly forth the plumage of snow-white wings, the wayward peevishness of the 
Prince gave jflace to sweet temper. Instead of scratching his teachers, he 
became the quickest and most docile of pupils, grew up to be the joy of his 
parents and the pride of their people ; and the people said, ‘ In him we shall 
have hereafter such a king as we have never yet known,’ 

“ Here ended Lily’s tale. I cannot convey to you a notion of the pretty, 
playful manner in which it was told. Then she said, with a grave shake of 
the head, ‘ But you do not seem to know what happened afterwards. Do you 
suppose that the Prince never made use of his wings ? Listen to me. It was 
discovered by the courtiers who attended on his Royal Highness that on cer¬ 
tain nights, every week, he disappeared. In fact, on these nights, obedient 
to the instinct of the wings, he flew from palace halls into Fairyland; coming 
back thence all the more lovingly disposed towards the human home from 
which he had escaped for a while.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, my children,’ interposed the preacher, earnestly, ‘ the wings would 
be given to us in vain if we did not obey the instinct which allures us to soar; 
vain no less would be the soaring, were it not towards the home whence we 
came, bearing back from its native airs a stronger health and a serener joy, 
more reconciled to the duties of earth by every new flight into heaven.’ 

“ As he thus completed the moral of Lily’s fairy-tale, the girl rose from 
her low seat, took his hand, kissed it reverently, and walked away towards 
the window. I could see that she was affected even to tears, which she sought 
to conceal. Later in the evening when we were dispersed on the lawn for a 
few minutes before the parly broke up, Lily came to my side timidly, and said, 
in a low whisper : 


KENELM CHILLINGL K 


397 


“ ‘ Are you angry with me ? what have I done to displease you ? ’ 

“ ‘ An^y with you ? displeased ? How can you think of me so unjustly ?* 
“ ‘ It is so many days since you have called, since I have seen you,’ she 
said, so artlessly, looking up at me with eyes in which tears still seemed to 
tremble. 

“Before I could trust myself to reply, her aunt approached, and, noticing 
me with a cold and distant ‘ Good-night,’ led away her niece. 

“ I had calculated on walking back to their home with them, as I gener¬ 
ally have done when we met at another house. But the aunt had probably 
conjectured I might be at the Vicarage that evening, and, in order to frustrate 
my intention, had engaged a carriage for their return. No doubt she has been 
warned against permitting further intimacy with her niece. 

“ My father, I must come to you at once, discharge my promise, and re¬ 
ceive from your own lips your consent to my choice; for you will consent, 
will you not ? But I wish you to be prepared beforehand, and 1 shall there¬ 
fore put up these disjointed fragments of my commune with my own heart and 
with yours, and post them to-morrow. Expect me to follow them, after leav¬ 
ing you a day free to consider them alone—alone, my dear father ; they are 
meant for no eye but yours. 

“ K. C.’» 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next day Kenelm walked into the town, posted his vol¬ 
uminous letter to Sir Peter, and then looked in at the shop 
of Will Somers, meaning to make some purchases of basket- 
work or trifling fancy goods in Jessie’s pretty store of such 
articles, that might please the taste of his mother. 

On entering" the shop his heart beat quicker. He saw 
two young forms bending over the counter, examining the 
contents of a glass case. One of these customers was Clem- 
my ; in the other there was no mistaking the slight graceful 
shape of Lily Mordaunt. Clemmy was exclaiming, ‘‘ Oh, it 
is so pretty, Mrs. Somers ; but,” turning her eyes from 
the counter to a silk purse in her hand, she added, sorrow¬ 
fully, “ I can’t buy it. I have not got enough, not by a great 
deal.” 

“ And what is it. Miss Clemmy ?” asked Kenelm. 

The two girls turned round at his voice, and Clemmy’s 
face brightened. 

“ Look here,” she said, is it not too lovely ?” ^ 

The object thus admired and coveted was a little gold 
locket, enriched by a cross composed of small pearls. 

“ I assure you, miss,” said Jessie, who had acquired all 
the coaxing arts of her trade, “it is really a great bargain. 



KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


39=^ 


Miss Mary Burrows, who was here just before you came, 
bought one not nearly so pretty, and gave ten shillings more 
for it.” 

Miss Mary Burrows was the same age as Miss Clementina 
Emlyn, and there was a rivalry as to smartness between those 
youthful beauties. “ Miss Burrows ! ” sighed Clemmy, very 
scornfully. 

But Kenelm’s attention was distracted from Clemmy’s 
locket to a little ring which Lily had been persuaded by Mrs. 
Somers to try on, and which she now drew off and returned 
with a shake of the head. Mrs. Somers, who saw that she 
had small chance of selling the locket to Clemmy, was now 
addressing herself to the elder girl, more likely to have suf¬ 
ficient pocket-money, and whom, at all events, it was quite 
safe to trust. 

“The ring fits you so nicely. Miss Mordaunt, and every 
young lady of your age wears at least one ring ; allow me to 
put it up ? ” She added in a lower voice, “ Though we only 
sell the articles in this case on commission, it is all the same 
to us whether we are paid now or at Christmas.” 

“ ’Tis no use tempting me, Mrs. Somers,” said Lily, laugh¬ 
ing ; and then, with a grave air, “ I promised Lion, I mean 
my guardian, never to run into debt ; and I never will.” 

Lily turned resolutely from the perilous counter, taking 
up a paper that contained a new ribbon she had bought for 
Blanche, and Clemmy reluctantly followed her out of the 
shop. 

Kenelm lingered behind, and selected very hastily a few 
trifles, to be sent to him that evening with some specimens 
of basket-work left to Will’s tasteful discretion ; then pur¬ 
chased the locket on which Clemmy had set her heart ; but 
all the while his thoughts were fixed on the ring which Lily 
had tried on. It was no sin against etiquette to give the 
locket to a child like Clemmy, but would it not be a cruel 
impertinence to offer a gift to Lily ? 

Jessie spoke : 

“ Miss Mordaunt took a great fancy to this ring, Mr. Chil¬ 
lingly. I am sure her aunt would like her to have it. I have 
a great mind to put it by on the chance of Mrs. Cameron’s 
calling here. It would be a pity if it were bought by some 
one else.” 

“ I think,” said Kenelm, “ that I will take the liberty ol 
showing it to Mrs. Cameron. No doubt she will buy it foi 
her niece. Add the price of it to my bill.” He seized the 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


399 


ring and carried it off ; a very poor little simple ring, with 
a single stone, shaped as a heart, not half the price of the 
locket. 

Kenelm rejoined the young ladies just where the path 
split into two, the one leading direct to Grasmere, the other 
through the churchyard to the Vicarage. He presented the 
locket to Clemmy with brief kindly words which easily re* 
moved any scruple she might have had in accepting it ; and, 
delighted with her acquisition, she bounded off to the Vicar¬ 
age, impatient to show the prize to her mamma and sisters, 
and more especially to Miss Mary Burrows, who was com¬ 
ing to lunch with them. 

Kenelm walked on slowly by Lily’s side. 

“ You have a good heart, Mr. Chillingly,” said she, some¬ 
what abruptly. “ How it must please you to give such 
pleasure ! Dear little Clemmy ! ” 

This arriess praise, and the perfect absence of envy or 
thought of self evinced by her joy that her friend’s wish was 
gratified though her own was not, enchanted Kenelm. 

“ If it pleases to give pleasure,” said he, “ it is your turn 
to be pleased now : you can confer such pleasure upon 
me.” 

“ How ? ” she asked, falteringly, and with quick change of 
color. 

“ By conceding to me the same right your little friend 
has allowed.” 

And he drew forth the ring. 

Lily reared her head with a first impulse of haughtiness. 
But when her eyes met his the head drooped down again, 
and a slight shiver ran through her frame. 

“ Miss Mordaunt,” resumed Kenelm, mastering his pas¬ 
sionate longing to fall at her feet and say, “ But, oh! in this 
ring it is my love that I offer—it is my troth that I pledge ! ” 
“ Miss Mordaunt, spare me the misery of thinking that I 
have offended you ; least of all would I do so on this day, 
for it may te some little while before I see you again. I 
am going home for a few days upon a matter which may 
affect the happiness of my life, and on which I should be a 
bad son and an unworthy gentleman if I did not consult 
him wlio, in all that concerns my affections, has trained me 
to turn to him, the father; in all that concerns my honor, 
to him, the gentleman.” 

A speech more unlike that which any delineator of man¬ 
ners and morals in the present day would put into the 


400 


KEN ELM CIirLLTNGL K 


mouth of a lover, no critic in “ The Londoner ” could ridi 
cule. But, somehow or other, this poor little tamer of but¬ 
terflies and teller of fairy-tales comprehended on the instant 
all that this most eccentric of human beings thus frigidly left 
untold. Into her innermost heart it sank more deeply than 
would the most ardent declaration put into the lips of the 
boobies or the scamps in whom delineators of manners in 
the present day too often debase the magnificent chivalry 
embodied in the name of “Lover.” 

Where these two had, while speaking, halted on the path 
along the brook-side, there was a bench, on which it so hap¬ 
pened that they had seated themselves weeks before. A 
few moments later, on that bench they were seated again. 

And the trumpery little ring with its turquoise heart 
was on Lily’s finger, and there they continued to sit for 
nearly half an hour; not talking much, but wondrously 
happy; not a single vow of troth interchanged. No, not 
even a word that could be construed into “ I love.” And 
yet when they rose from the bench, and went silently along 
the brook-side, each knew that the other was beloved. 

When they reached the gate that admitted into the gar¬ 
den of Grasmere, Kenelm made a slight start. Mrs. Came¬ 
ron was leaning over the gate. Whatever alarm at the 
appearance Kenelm might have felt was certainly not shared 
by Lily; she advanced lightly before him, kissed her aunt 
on the cheek, and passed on across the lawn with a bound 
in her step and the carol of a song upon her lips. 

Kenelm remained by the gate, face to face with Mrs. 
Cameron. She opened the gate, put her arm in his, and 
led him back along the brook-side. 

“I am sure, Mr. Chillingly,” she said, “that you will 
not impute to my words any meaning more grave than that 
which I wish them to convey, when I remind you that there 
is no place too obscure to escape from the ill-nature of gos¬ 
sip ; and you must own that my niece incurs the chance of 
its notice if she be seen walking alone in these by-paths 
with a man of your age and position, and whose sojourn iij 
the neighborhood, without any ostensible object or motive, 
lias already begun to excite conjecture. I do not for a 
moment assume that you regard my niece in any other light 
than that of an artless child whose originality of tastes or 
fancy may serve to amuse you ; and still less do I suppose 
that she is in danger of misrepresenting any attentions on 
your part. But for her sake I am bound to consider what 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


401 


others may say. Excuse me then if I add that I think you 
are also bound in honor and in good feeling to do the same. 
Mr. Chillingly, it would give me a great sense of relief if it 
suited your plans to move from the neighborhood.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Cameron,” answered Kenelm, who had 
listened to this speech with imperturbable calm of visage, 
“ I thank you much for your candor, and I am glad to have 
this opportunity of informing you that I am about to move 
Vom this neighborhood, with the hope of returning to it in 
a, very few days and rectifying your mistake as to the point 
of view in which I regard your niece. In a word,” here the 
expression of his countenance and tlie tone of his voice 
underwent a sudden change, “ it is the dearest wish of my 
heart to be empowered by my parents to assure you of the 
warmth with which they will welcome your niece as their 
daughter, should she deign to listen to my suit and intrust 
me with the charge of her happiness.” 

Mrs. Cameron stopped short, gazing into his face with 
a look of inexpressible dismay. 

‘‘No! Mr. Chillingly,” she exclaimed, “ this must not be 
—cannot be. Put out of your mind an idea so wild. A 
young man’s senseless romance. Your parents cannot con¬ 
sent to your union with my niece ; I tell you beforehand 
they cannot.” 

“ But why ? ” said Kenelm, with a slight smile, and not 
much impressed by the vehemence of Mrs. Cameron’s adju¬ 
ration. 

“ Why ? ” she repeated, passionately ; and then recover¬ 
ing something of her habitual weariness of quiet. “ The 
why is easily explained. Mr. Kenelm Chillingly is the heir 
of a very ancient house, and, I am told, of considerable es¬ 
tates. Lily Mordaunt is a nobody, an orphan, without for¬ 
tune, without connection, the ward of a humbly born artist, 
to whom she owes the roof that shelters her ; she is without 
the ordinary education of a gentlewoman ; she has seen 
nothing of the world in which you move. Your parents 
have not the right to allow a son so young as yourself to 
throw himself out of his proper sphere by a rash and impru¬ 
dent alliance. And never would I consent, never would 
Walter Melville consent, to her entering into any family 
reluctant to receive her. There—that is enough. Dismiss 
the notion so lightly entertained. And farewell.” 

“Madam,” answered Kenelm, very earnestly, “believe 
me, that had I not entertained the hope approaching to 


402 


KENELM Cinr.LL^GL K 


conviction that the reasons you urge against my presump, 
tion will not have the weight with my parents which you 
ascribe to them, I should not have spoken to you thus 
frankly. Young though I be, still I might fairly claim the 
right to choose for myself in marriage. But I gave to my 
father a very binding promise that I would not formally 
propose to any one till I had acquainted him with my desire 
to do so, and obtained his approval of my choice ; and he 
is the last man in the world who would withhold that ap¬ 
proval where my heart is set on it as it is now. I want no 
fortune with a wife, and should I ever care to advance my 
position in the world no connection could help me like the 
approving smile of the woman I love. There is but one 
qualification which my parents would deem they had the 
right to exact from my choice of one who is to bear our 
name. I mean that she should have the appearance, the 
manners, the principles, and—my mother at least might add 
—the birth of a gentlewoman. Well, as to appearance and 
manners, I have seen much of fine society from my boyhood, 
and found no one among the highest-born who can excel 
the exquisite refinement of every look, and the inborn del¬ 
icacy of every thought, in her of whom, if mine, I shall be 
as proud as I shall be fond. As to defects in the frippery 
and tinsel of a boarding-school education, they are very 
soon remedied. Remains only the last consideration— 
birth. Mrs. Braefield informs me that you have assured her 
that, though circumstances into which as yet I have no 
right to inquire have made her the ward of a man of humble 
origin. Miss Mordaunt is of gentle birth. Do you deny 
that ?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Cameron^ hesitating, but with a flash 
of pride in her eyes as she went q-h. “No. I cannot deny 
that my niece is descended from those who, in point of 
birth , were not unequal to your own ancestors. But what 
of that ? ” she added, with a bitter despondency of tone. 
“ Equality of birth ceases when one falls into poverty, ob¬ 
scurity, neglect, nothingness ! ’ 

“Really this is a morbid habit on your part. But since 
we have thus spoken so ccnfidentially, will you not em¬ 
power me to answer the question which will probably be 
put to me, and the answer to which will, I doubt not, re¬ 
move every obstacle in the way of my happiness ? What¬ 
ever the reasons which might very sufficientlv induce you to 
preserve, whilst living so quietly in this p.^ce, a discreet 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


403 


silence as to the parentage of Miss Mordaunt and your own, 
—and I am well aware that those whom altered circum¬ 
stances of fortune have compelled to altered modes of life 
may disdain to parade to strangers the pretensions to a 
higher station than that to which they reconcile their 
habits,—whatever, I say, such reasons for silence to 
strangers, should they preclude you from confiding to me, 
an aspirant to your niece’s hand, a secret which, after all, 
cannot be concealed from her future husband ? ” 

“From her future husband? of course not,” answered 
Mrs. Cameron. “But I decline to be questioned by one 
whom I may never see again, and of whom I know so 
little. I decline, indeed, to assist in removing any obstacle 
to a union with my niece, which I hold to be in every way 
unsuited to either party. I have no cause even to believe 
that my niece would accept you if you were free to propose 
to her. You have not, I presume, spoken to her as an as¬ 
pirant to her hand. You have not addressed to her any de¬ 
claration of your attachment, or sought to extract from her 
inexperience any words that warrant you in thinking that 
her heart will break if she never sees you again ? ” 

“ I do not merit such cruel and taunting questions,” said 
Kenelm, indignantly. “ But I will say no more now. When 
we again meet, let me hope you will treat me less unkindly. 
Adieu ! ” 

“Stay, sir. A word or two more. You persist in ask¬ 
ing your father and Lady Chillingly to consent to your pro¬ 
posal to Miss Mordaunt ?” 

“ Certainly I do.” 

“ And you will promise me, on your word as a gentleman, 
to state fairly all the causes which might fairly operate 
against their consent ; the poverty, the humble rearing, the 
imperfect education of my niece ; so that they might not 
hereafter say you had entrapped their consent, and avenge 
themselves |or your deceit by contempt for her ? ” 

“Ah, madam, madam, you really try my patience too 
far. But take my promise, if you can hold that of value 
from one whom you can suspect of deliberate deceit.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chillingly. Bear with my 
rudeness. I have been so taken by surprise I scarcely know 
what I am saying. But let us understand each other com¬ 
pletely before we part. If your parents withhold their con¬ 
sent you will communicate it to me ; me only, not to Lily. 
I repeat, I know nothing of the state of her affections. But 


404 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


it might embitter any girl’s life to be led on to love one 
whom she could not marry.” 

“ It shall be as you say. But if they do consent ? ” 

“ Then you will speak to me before you seek an inter¬ 
view with Lily ; for then comes another question ; Will her 
guardian consent ?—and—and ” 

“ And what ? ” 

“No matter. I rely on your honor in this request, as in 
all else. Good-day.” 

She turned back with hurried footsteps, muttering to 
herself, “ But they will not consent. Heaven grant that 
they will not consent, or, if they do, what—what is to be 
said or done ? Oh, that Walter Melville were here, or that 1 
knew where to write to him ! ” 

On his way back to Cromwell Lodge, Kenelm was over¬ 
taken by the vicar. 

“ I was coming to you, my dear Mr. Chillingly, first to 
thank you for the very pretty present with which you have 
gladdened the heart of my little Clemmy, and next to ask 

you to come with me quietly to-day to meet Mr. -, the 

celebrated antiquarian, who came to Moleswich this morn¬ 
ing at rny request, to examine that old gothic tomb in our 
church-yard. Only think,—though he cannot read the in¬ 
scription any better than we can, he knows all about its 
history. It seems that a young knight, renowned for feats 
of valor in the reign of Henry IV., married a daughter of 
one of those great Earls of Montfichet who were then the 
most powerful family in these parts. He was slain in de¬ 
fending the church from an assault by some disorderly 
rioters of the Lollard faction; he fell on the very spot 
where the tomb is now placed. That accounts for its situa¬ 
tion in the churchyard, not within the fabric. Mr.-dis¬ 

covered this fact in an old memoir of the ancient and once 
famous family to which the young knight Albert belonged, 
and which came, alas ! to so shameful an end,—the Flet- 
wodes, Barons of Fletwode and Malpas. What a triumph 
over pretty Lily Mordaunt, who always chose to imagine 
that the tomb must be that of some heroine of her own or- 

mantic invention ! Do come to dinner ; Mr.-is a most 

agreeable man, and full of interesting anecdote.” 

“ I am so sorry I cannot. I am obliged to return home 
at once for a few days. That old family of Fletwode ! I 
think I see before me, while we speak, the gray tower in 
which they once held sway; and the last of the race follow- 




KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


405 


ing Mammon along the Progress of the Age—a convicted 
felon ! What a terrible satire on the pride of birth ! ” 

Kenelm left Cromwell Lodge that evening, but he still 
kept on his apartments there, saying he might be back un¬ 
expectedly any day in the course of the next week. 

He remained two days in London, wishing all that he had 
communicated to Sir Peter in writing to sink into his father’s 
heart before a personal appeal to it. 

The more he revolved the ungracious manner in which 
Mrs. Cameron had received his confidence, the less impor¬ 
tance he attached to it. An exaggerated sense of disparities 
ot fortune in a person who appeared to him to have the pride 
so common to those who have known better days, coupled 
with a nervous apprehension lest his family should ascribe 
to her any attempt to insnare a very young man of consider¬ 
able worldly pretensions into a marriage with a penniless 
niece, seemed to account for much that had at first perplexed 
and angered him. And if, as he conjectured, Mrs. Cameron 
had once held a much higher position in the world than she 
did now—a conjecture warranted by a certain peculiar con¬ 
ventional undeniable elegance which characterized her habit¬ 
ual manner—and was now, as she implied, actually a depend¬ 
ant on the bounty of a painter who had only just acquired 
some professional distinction^ she might well shrink from 
the mortification of becoming an object of compassion to her 
richer neighbors ; nor, when he came to think of it, had he 
any more right than those neighbors to any confidence as to 
her own or Lily’s parentage, so long as he was not formally 
entitled to claim admission into her privity. 

London seemed to him intolerably dull and wearisome. 
He called nowhere except at Lady Glenalvon’s : he was glad 
to hear from the servants that she was still at Exmundham. 
He relied much on the influence of the queen of the Fashion 
with his mother, who he knew would be more difficult to 
persuade than Sir Peter, nor did he doubt that he should 
win to his side that sympathizing and warm-heafted queen. 


4^6 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


CHAPTER VII. 

It somewhere about three weeks since the party invited 
by Sir Peter and Lady Chillingly assembled at Exmundham, 
and they are still there, though people invited to a country 
house have seldom compassion enough for the dullness of its 
owner to stay more than three days. Mr. Chillingly Mivers, 
indeed, had not exceeded that orthodox limit. Quietly ob¬ 
servant, during his stay, of young Gordon’s manner towards 
Cecilia, and hers towards him, he had satisfied himself that 
there was no cause to alarm Sir Peter or induce the worthy 
baronet to regret the invitation he had given to that clever 
kinsman. For all the visitors remaining, Exmundham had 
a charm. 

To Lady Glenalvon, because in the hostess she met her 
most familiar friend when both were young girls, and because 
it pleased her to note the interest which Cecilia Travers took 
in the place so,associated with memories of the man to whom 
it was Lady Glenalvon’s hope to see her united. To Gordon 
Chillingly, because no opportunity could be so favorable for 
his own well-concealed designs on the hand and heart of the 
heiress. To the heiress herself the charm needs no explan¬ 
ation. 

To Leopold Travers the attractions of Exmundham were 
unquestionably less fascinating. Still, even he was well 
pleased to prolong his stay. His active mind found amuse¬ 
ment in wandering over an estate the acreage of which would 
have warranted a much larger rental, and lecturing Sir Peter 
on the old-fashioned system of husbandry which that good- 
natured easy proprietor permitted his tenants to adopt, as 
well as on the number of superfluous hands that were em¬ 
ployed on the pleasure-grounds and in the general manage- 
of the estate, such as carpenters, sawyers, woodmen, brick¬ 
layers, and smiths. 

When the Squire said, “You could do just as well with 
a third of those costly dependants,” Sir Peter, unconsciously 
plagiarizing the answer of the old French grand seigneur, 
replied, “Very likely. But the question is, could the rest 
do just as well without me ? ” 

Exmundham, indeed, was a very expensive place to keep 


407 


KE E I M CHIT.J - A 1. V, 

up. The house, built Dy some ambitious Chillingly three 
centuries ago, would have been large for an owner of thrice 
the revenues ; and though the flower-garden was smaller than 
that at Braefieldville, there were paths and drives through 
miles of young plantations and old woodlands that furnished 
lazy occupation to an army of laborers. No wonder that, 
despite his nominal ten thousand a year. Sir Peter was far 
from being a rich man. Exmundham devoured at least half 
the rental. The active mind of Leopold Travers also found 
ample occupation in the stores of his host’s extensive library. 
Travers, never much of a reade:^ was by no means a despiser 
of learning, and he soon took to -istorical and archaeological 
researches with the ardor of a man who must always throw 
energy into any pursuit that occasion presents as an escape 
h'om indolence. Indolent, Leopold Travers never could be. 
But, more than either of these resources of occupation, the 
companionship of Chillingly Gordon excited his interest and 
quickened the current of his thoughts. Always fond of re¬ 
newing his own youth in the society of the young, and of the 
sympathizing temperament which belongs to cordial natures, 
he had, as we have seen, entered very heartily into the ambi¬ 
tion of George Belvoir, and reconciled himself very pliably to 
the humors of Kenelm Chillingly. But the first of these two 
was a little too commonplace, the second a little too eccen¬ 
tric, to enlist the complete good-fellowship which, being alike 
very clever and very practical, Leopold Travers established 
with that very clever and very practical representative of the 
rising generation. Chillingly Gordon. Between them there 
was this meeting-ground, political and worldly,—a great con¬ 
tempt for innocuous old-fashioned notions ; added to which, 
in the mind of Leopold Travers, was a contempt—which 
would have been complete, but that the contempt admitted 
dread—of harmful new-fashioned notions which, interpreted 
by his thoughts, threatened ruin to his country and downfall 
to the follies of existent society, and which, interpreted by 
his language, tamed itself into the man of the world’s phrase, 
“ Going too far for me.” Notions which, by the much more 
cultivated intellect and the immeasurably more soaring am¬ 
bition of Chillingly Gordon, might be viewed and criticized 
thus : “ Could I accept these doctrines ? I don’t see my way 
to being Prime Minister of a country in which religion and 
capital are still powers to be consulted. And, putting aside 
religion and capital, I don’t see how, if these doctrines passed 
in^^; law, with a good coat on my back I should not be a sufi 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


ferer. Either I, as having a good coat, should have it torn 
off my back as a capitalist, or, if I remonstrated in the name 
of moral honesty, be put to death as a religionist.” 

Therefore when Leopold Travers said, “ Of course we 
must go on,” Chillingly Gordon smiled and answered, “ Cer¬ 
tainly, go on.” And when Leopold Travers added, “ But 
we may go too far,” Chillingly Gordon shook his head and 
replied, “ How true that is ! Certainly, too far.” 

Apart from the congeniality of political sentiment, there 
were other points of friendly contact between the older and 
younger man. Each was an exceedingly pleasant man of 
the world ; and, though Leopold Travers could not have 
plumbed certain deeps in Chillingly Gordon’s nature—and 
in every man’s nature there are deeps which his ablest ob¬ 
server cannot fathom—yet he was not wrong when he said 
to himself, “Gordon is a gentleman.” 

Utterly would my readers misconceive that very clever 
young man, if they held him to be a hypocrite like Blifil or 
Joseph Surface. Chillingly Gordon, in every private sense 
of the word, was a gentleman. If he had staked his whole 
fortune on a rubber at whist, and an undetected glance at 
his adversary’s hand would have made the difference be¬ 
tween loss and gain, he would have turned away his head 
and said, “ Hold up your cards.” Neither, as I have had 
occasion to explain before, was he actuated by any motive 
in common with the vulgar fortune-hunter in his secret 
resolve to win the hand of the heiress. He recognized no 
inequality of worldly gifts between them. He said to him¬ 
self, “ Whatever she may give me in money, I shall amply 
repay in worldly position if I succeed ; and succeed I cer¬ 
tainly shall. If I were as rich as Lord Westminster, and 
still caring about being Prime Minister, I should select her 
as the most fitting woman I have seen for a Prime Minis¬ 
ter’s wife.” 

It must be acknowledged that this sort of self-commune, 
if not that of a very ardent lover, is very much that of a 
sensible man setting high value on himself, bent on achiev¬ 
ing the prizes of a public career, and desirous of securing 
in his wife a woman who would adorn the station to which 
he confidently aspired. In fact, no one so able as Chillingly 
Gordon would ever have conceived the ambition of being 
Minister of England if, in all that in private life constitutes 
the English gentleman, he could be fairly subject to re¬ 
proach. 


kENELM CHILLINGLY. 


400 


He was but in public life what many a gentleman honest 
in private life has been before him, an ambitious, resolute 
egotist, by no means without personal affections, but hold¬ 
ing them all subordinate to the objects of personal ambi¬ 
tion, and with no more of other principle than that of ex¬ 
pediency in reference to his own career, than would cover 
a silver penny. But expediency in itself he deemed the 
statesman’s only rational principle. And to the considera¬ 
tion of expediency he brought a very unprejudiced intellect, 
quite fitted to decide whether the public opinion of a free 
and enlightened people was for turning St. Paul’s Cathe¬ 
dral into an Agapemone or not. 

During the summer weeks he had thus vouchsafed to the 
turfs and groves of Exmundham, Leopold Travers was not 
the only person whose good opinion Chillingly Gordon had 
ingratiated. He had won the warmest approbation from 
Mrs. Campion. His conversation reminded her of that 
which she had enjoyed in the house of her departed spouse. 
In talking with Cecilia she was fond of contrasting him to 
Kenelm, not to the favor of the latter, whose humors she 
utterly failed to understand, and whom she pertinaciously 
described as “so affected.” “A most superior young man 
Mr. Gordon, so well informed, so sensible, above all, so 
natural.” Such was her judgment upon the unavowed can¬ 
didate to Cecilia’s hand, and Mrs. Campion required no 
avowal to divine the candidature. Even Lady Glenalvon 
had begun to take friendly interest in the fortunes of this 
promising young man. Most women can sympathize with 
youthful ambition. He impressed her with a deep convic¬ 
tion of his abilities, and still more with respect for their 
concentration upon practical objects of power and renown. 
She too, like Mrs. Campion, began to draw comparisons 
unfavorable to Kenelm between the two cousins ; the one 
seemed so slothfully determined to hide his candle under a 
bushel, the other so honestly disposed to set his light before 
men. She felt also annoyed and angry that Kenelm was 
thus absenting himself from the paternal home at the very 
time of her first visit to it, and when he had so felicitous an 
opportunity of seeing more of the girl in whom he knew 
that Lady Glenalvon deemed he might win, if he would 
properly woo, the wife that would best suit him. So that 
when one day Mrs. Campion, walking through the gardens 
alone with Lady Glenalvon, while from the gardens into 
the park went Chillingly Gordon arm-in-arm with Leopold 


4tO 


KRNELM CHILLmcLY. 


Travers, abruptly asked, “Don’t you think that Mr. Gordon 
is smitten with Cecilia, though he, with his moderate for¬ 
tune, does not dare to say so ? And don’t you think that 
any girl, if she were as rich as Cecilia will be, would be 
more proud of such a husband as Chillingly Gordon than 
of some silly Earl ?” 

Lady Glenalvon answered curtly, but somewhat sorrow¬ 
fully— 

“Yes.” 

After a pause, she added, “ There is a man with whom I 
did once think she would have been happier than with any 
other ; one man who ought to be dearer to me than Mr. 
Gordon, for he saved the life of my son, and who, though 
perhaps less clever than Mr. Gordon, still has agreai deal of 
talent within him, which might come forth and make him 
—what shall I say ?—a useful and distinguished me Tiber of 
society, if married to a girl so sure of raising any man she 
marries as Cecilia Travers. But if I am to renounce that 
hope, and look through the range of young men brought 
under my notice, I don’t know one, putting aside considera ¬ 
tion of rank and fortune, I should prefer for a clever daugh 
ter who went heart and soul with the ambition of a clever 
man. But, Mrs. Campion, I have not yet quite renounced 
my hope ; and, unless I do, I yet think there is one man tc 
whom I would rather give Cecilia, if she were my daughter.” 

Therewith Lady Glenalvon so decidedly broke off the 
subject of conversation, that Mrs. Campion could not have 
renewed it without such a breach of the female etiquette 
of good breeding as Mrs. Campion was the last person to 
adventure. 

Lady Chillingly could not help being pleased with Gor¬ 
don. He was light in hand, served to amuse her guests, and 
made up a rubber of whist in case of need. 

There were two persons, however, with whom Gordon 
made no ground, viz.. Parson John and Sir Peter. When 
Travers praised him one day for the solidity of his parts and 
the soundness of his judgment, the Parson replied, snap¬ 
pishly, “ Yes, solid and sound as one of those tables you buy 
at a broker’s: the thickness of the varnish hides the defects 
in the joints ; the whole framework is rickety.” But when 
the Parson was indignantly urged to state the reason by 
which he arrived at so harsh a conclusion, he could only re¬ 
ply by an assertion which seemed to his questioner a de¬ 
clamatory burst of parsonic intolerance. 


KENELM chilltngl k 


4ii 

“ Because,” said Parson John, “he has no love for man, 
and no reverence for God. And no character is sound and 
solid which enlarges its surface at the expense of its sup¬ 
ports.” 

On the other hand, the favor with wliich Sir Peter had a> 
first regarded Gordon gradually vanished, in proportion as, 
acting on the hint Mivers had originally thrown out but did 
not deem it necessary to repeat, he watched the pains which 
the young man took to insinuate himself into the good graces 
of Mr. Travers and Mrs. Campion, and the artful and half- 
suppressed gallantry of his manner to the heiress. 

Perhaps Gordon had not ventured thus “ to feel his way ” 
till after Mivers had departed ; or perhaps Sir Peter’s paren¬ 
tal anxiety rendered him in this instance a shrewder ob¬ 
server than was the man of the world, whose natural acute¬ 
ness was, in matters of affection, not unfrequently rendered 
languid by his acquired philosophy of indifferentism. 

More and more every day, every hour, of her sojourn 
beneath his roof, did Cecilia become dearer to Sir Peter, 
and stronger and stronger became his wish to secure her for 
his daughter-in-law. He was inexpressibly flattered by her 
preference for his company ; ever at hand to share his cus¬ 
tomary walks, his kindly visits to the cottages of peasants 
or the homesteads of petty tenants ; wherein both were sure 
to hear many a simple anecdote of Master Kenelm in his 
childhood, anecdotes of whim or good nature, of considerate 
pity or reckless courage. 

Throughout all these varieties of thought or feeling in 
the social circle around her, Lady Chillingly preserved the 
unmoved calm of her dignified position. A very good 
woman certainly, and very ladylike. No one could detect a 
flaw in her character, or a fold awry in her flounce. She 
was only, like the gods of Epicurus, too good to trouble her 
serene existence with the cares of us simple mortals. Not 
that she was without a placid satisfaction in the tribute 
which the world laid upon her altars ; nor was she so su¬ 
premely goddess-like as to soar above the household affec¬ 
tions which humanity entails on the dwellers and denizens of 
earth. She liked her husband as much as most elderly wives 
like their elderly husbands. She bestowed upon Kenelm a 
liking somewhat more warm, and mingled with compassion. 
His eccentricities would have puzzled her, if she had allowed 
herself to be puzzled : it troubled her less to pity them. She 
did not share her husband’s aesirefor his union with Cecilia 


KENELM CHILUNGLY. 


She thought that her son would have a higher place in tb6 
county if he married Lady Jane, the Duke of Clareville’s 
daughter; and “ that is what he ought to do,” said Lady 
Chillingly to herself. She entertained none of the fear that 
had induced Sir Peter to extract from Kenelm the promise 
not to pledge his hand before he had received his father’s 
consent. That the son of Lady Chillingly should make a 
mhalliance^ however crotchety he might be in other respects, 
was a thought that it would have so disturbed her to admit, 
that she did not admit it. 

Such was the condition of things at Exmundham when 
the lengthy communication of Kenelm reached Sir Peter’s 
hands. 


BOOK VIIL 


CHAPTER I. 

Never in his whole life had the mind of Sir Peter been 
so agitated as it was during, and after, the perusal of Ken- 
elm’s flighty composition. He had received it at the break¬ 
fast-table, and, opening it eagerly, ran his eye hastily ove»' 
the contents, till he very soon arrived at sentences whic 
appalled him. Lady Chillingly, who was fortunately busier 
at the tea-urn, did not observe the dismay on his counte¬ 
nance. It was visible only to Cecilia and to Gordon. 
Neither guessed whom that letter was from. 

‘‘Not bad news, I hope ?” said Cecilia, softly. 

“Bad news,” echoed Sir Peter. “No, my dear, no ; a 
letter on business. It seems terribly long,” and he thrust 
the packet into his pocket, muttering, “ see to it by-and-by.” 

“That slovenly farmer of yours, Mr. Nostock, has failed, 
I suppose,” said Mr. Travers, looking up and observing a 
quiver on his host’s lip. I told you he would—a fine farm 
too. Let me choose you another tenant.” 

Sir Peter shook his head with a wan smile. 

“ Nostock will not fail. There have been six genera¬ 
tions of Nostocks on the farm.” 

“So I should guess,” said Travers, dryly. 

“And—and,” faltered Sir Peter, “if the last of the race 
fails, he must lean upon me, and—if one of the two break 
down—it shall not be-” 

“ Shall not be that cross-cropping blockhead, my dear Sir 
Peter. This is carrying benevolence too far.” 

Here the tact and savoir-vivre of Chillingly Gordon came 
to the rescue of the host. Possessing himself of the Th7ies 
newspaper, he uttered an exclamation of surprise, genuine 
or simulated, and read aloud an extract from the leading 
article, announcing an impending change in the Cabinet. 

As soon as he could quit the breakfast-table, Sir Peter 
hurried into his library, and there gave himself up to the study 


'KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


^14 

of Kcnelm’s unwelcome communication. The task took him 
long, for he stopped at intervals, overcome by the struggle 
of his heart, now melted into sympathy with the passionate 
eloquence of a son hitherto so free from amorous romance, 
and now sorrowing for the ruin of his own cherished hopes. 
This uneducated country girl would never be such a help¬ 
mate to a man like Kenelm as would have been Cecilia 
Travers. At length, having finished the letter, he buried 
his head between his clasped hands, and tried hard to realize 
the situation that placed the father and son into such direct 
antagonism. 

But,” he murmured, “after all it is the boy’s happiness 
that must be consulted. If he will not be happy in my way, 
what right have I to say that he shall not be happy in his ? ” 

Just then Cecilia came softly into the room. She had 
acquired the privilege of entering his library at will, some- 
times to choose a book of his recommendation, sometimes 
to direct and seal his letters,—Sir Peter was grateful to any 
one who saved him an extra trouble,—and sometimes, 
especially at this hour, to decoy him forth into his wonted 
constitutional walk. 

He lifted his face at the sound of her approaching tread 
and her winning voice, and the face was so sad that the tears 
rushed to her eyes on seeing it. She laid her hand on his 
shoulder, and said, pleadingly, “ Dear Sir Peter, what is it 
—what is it?” 

“Ah—ah, my dear,” said Sir Peter, gathering up the 
scattered sheets of Kenelm’s effusion with hurried, trembling 
hands. “ Don’t ask—don’t talk of it ; ’tis but one of the 
disappointments that all of us must undergo, when we in¬ 
vest our hopes in the uncertain will of others.” 

Then, observing that the tears were trickling down the 
girl’s fair, pale cheeks, he took her hand in both his, kissed 
her forehead, and said, whisperingly, “ Pretty one, how good 
you have been to me ! Heaven bless you ! What a wife 
you will be to some man ! ” 

Thus saying, he shambled out of the room through the 
open casement. She followed him impulsively, wondering- 
ly ; but before she reached his side he turned round, waved 
his hand with a gently repelling gesture, and went his way 
alone through dense fir groves which had been planted in 
honor of Kenelm’s birth. 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


4CS 


CHAPTER II. 

Kenelm arrived at Exmundham just in time to dress for 
dinner. His arrival was not unexpected, for the morning 
after his father had received his communication, Sir Peter 
had said to Lady Chillingly “ that he had heard from Ken¬ 
elm to the effect that he might be down any day.” 

“Quite time he should come,” said Lady Chillingly. 
“ Have you his letter about you ?” 

“No, my dear Caroline. Of course he sends you his 
kindest love, poor fellow.” 

“ Why poor fellow ? Has he been ill ?” 

“ No ; but there seems to be something on his mind. If 
so, we must do what we can to relieve it. He is the best of 
sons, Caroline.” 

“ I am sure I have nothing to say against him, except,” 
added her ladyship, reflectively, “ that I do wish he were a 
little more like other young men.” 

“ Hum—like Chillingly Gordon, for instance ?” 

“ Well, yes ; Mr. Gordon is a remarkably well-bred, sen¬ 
sible young man. How different from that disagreeable, 
bearish father of his, who went to law with you ! ” 

“ Very different indeed, but with just as much of the 
Chillingly blood in him. How the Chillinglys ever gave 
birth to a Kenelm is a question much more puzzling.” 

“Oh, my dear Sir Peter, don’t be metaphysical. You 
know how I hate puzzles.” 

“ And yet, Caroline, I have to thank you for a puzzle 
which I can never interpret by my brain. There are a great 
many puzzles in human nature which can only be interpret¬ 
ed by the heart.” 

“ Very true,” said Lady Chillingly. “ I suppose Kenelm 
is to have his old room, just opposite to Mr. Gordon’s.” 

“Ay—ay, just opposite. Opposite they will be all their 
lives. Only think, Caroline, I have made a discovery.” 

“ Dear me, I hope not. Your discoveries are generally 
very expensive, and bring us in contact with such very odd 
people.” 

“This discovery shall not cost us a penny, and I don’t 
know any people so odd as not to comprehend it. Briefly it 


4*6 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


IS this : To genius the first requisite is heart ; it is no requh 
site at all to talent. My dear Caroline, Gordon has as much 
talent as any young man I know, but he wants the first 
requisite of genius. 1 am not by any means sure that Ken- 
elm has genius, but there is no doubt that he has the first 
requisite of genius—heart. Heart is a very perplexing, way¬ 
ward, irrational thing; and that perhaps accounts for the 
general incapacity to comprehend genius, while any fool can 
comprehend talent. My dear Caroline, you know that it is 
very seldom, not more than once in three years, that I pre¬ 
sume to have a will of my own against a will of yours ; but 
should there come a question in which our son’s heart is 
concerned, then (speaking between ourselves) my will must 
govern yours.” 

“ Sir Peter is growing more odd every day,” said Lady 
Chillingly to herself when left alone. “ But he does not 
mean ill, and there are worse husbands in the world.” 

Therewith she rang for her maid, gave requisite orders 
for the preparing of Kenelm’s room, which had not been 
slept in for many months, and then consulted that function¬ 
ary as to the adaptation of some dress of hers, too costly to be 
laid aside, to the style of some dress less costly which Lady 
Glenalvon had imported from Paris as la def'nicre inode. 

On the very day on which Kenelrn arrived at Exmund- 
ham. Chillingly Gordon had received this letter from Mr. 
Gerard Danvers t 

“ Dear Gordon, —In the ministerial changes announced as rumor in the 
public papers, and which you may accept as certain, that sweet little cherub 
* * is to be sent to sit up aloft and pray there for the life of poor Jack — 
viz., of the government he leaves below. In accepting the peerage, which I 

persuaded him to do, * * * creates a vacancy for the borough of -, 

just the place for you, far better in every way than Saxborough. * * * 
promises to recommend you to his committee. Come to town at once. 

“Yours, etc., 

“ G. Danvers.” 

Gordon showed this letter to Mr. Travers, and, on receiv¬ 
ing the hearty good wishes of that gentleman, said, with 
emotion partly genuine partly assumed, “ You cannot guess 
all that the realization of your good wishes would be. Once 
in the House of Commons, and my motives for action are so 
strong that—do not think me very conceited if I count 
upon Parliamentary success.” 

“ My dear Gordon, I am as certain of your success as I 
am of my own existence,” 



KENELM CTIILLINGL K 


417 


Sliould i succeed—should the great prizes of public 
life be within my reach—should I lift myself into a position 
that would warrant my presumption, do you think I could 
come to you and say, ‘ There is an object of ambition dearer 
to me than power and oTfice—the hope of attaining which 
was the strongest of all my motives of action ? ’ And in 
that hope shall I also have the good wishes of the father of 
Cecilia Travers ? ” 

“ My dear fellow, give me your hand ; you speak man¬ 
fully and candidly, as a gentleman should speak. I answer 
in the same spirit. I don’t pretend to say that I have not 
entertained views for Cecilia which included hereditary rank 
and established fortune in a suitor to her hand, though I 
never should have made them imperative conditions. I am 
neither potentate nor parvenu enough for that; and I can 
never forget” (here every muscle in the man’s face twitched) 
“ that I myself married for love, and was so happy. How 
happy Heaven only knows ! Still, if you had thus spoken 
a few weeks ago, I should not have replied very favorably 
to your question. But now that I have seen so much of 
you, my answer is this : If you lose your election —if you 
don’t come into Parliament at all, you have my good wishes 
all the same. If you win my daughter’s heart, there is no 
man on whom I would more willingly bestow her hand. 
There she is, by herself too, in the garden. Go and talk to 
her.” 

Gordon hesitated. He knew too well that he had not 
won her heart, though he had no suspicion that it was given 
to another. And he was much too clever not to know also 
how much he hazards who, in affairs of courtship, is pre¬ 
mature. 

“Ah!” he said, “I cannot express my gratitude for 
words so generous, encouragement so cheering. But I have 
never yet dared to utter to Miss Travers a word that would 
prepare her even to harbor a thought of me as a suitor. 
And I scarcely think I should have the courage to go 
through this election with the grief of her rejection on my 
heart.” 

“ Well, go in and win the election first ; meanwhile, at 
all events, take leave of Cecilia.” 

Gordon left his friend, and joined Miss Travers, resolved 
not indeed to risk a formal declaration, but to sound his 
way to his chances of acceptance. 

The interview was very brief. He did sound his waj 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


418 

skilfully, and felt it very unsafe for his footsteps. The ad¬ 
vantage of having gained the approval of the father was 
too great to be lost altogether by one of those decided 
answers on the part of the daughter which allow of no ap¬ 
peal, especially to a poor gentleman who wooes an heiress. 

He returned to Travers, and said, simply, “I bear with 
me her good wishes as well as yours. That is all. I leave 
myself in your kind hands.’' 

Then he hurried away to take leave of his host and hos¬ 
tess, say a few significant words to the ally he had already 
gained in Mrs. Campion, and within an hour was on his 
road to London, passing on his way the train that bore Ken- 
elm to Exmundham. Gordon was in high spirits. At least 
he felt as certain of winning Cecilia as he did of winning his 
election. 

“I have never yet failed in what I desired,” said he to 
himself, “because I have ever taken pains not to fail.” 

The cause of Gordon’s sudden departure created a great 
excitement in that quiet circle, shared by all except Cecilia 
and Sir Peter. 


CHAPTER III. 

Kenelm did not see either father or mother till he ap¬ 
peared at dinner. Then he was seated next to Cecilia. 
There was but little conversation between the two ; in fact, 
the prevalent subject of talk was general and engrossing, 
the interest in Chillingly Gordon’s election ; predictions of 
his success, of what he would do in Parliament; “where,” 
t»aid Lady Glenalvon, “ there is such a dearth of rising 
young men, that if he were only half as clever as he is he 
would be a gain.” 

“A gain to what?” asked Sir Peter, testily. “To his 
country ? about which I don’t believe he cares a brass 
button.” 

To this assertion Leopold Travers replied warmly, and 
was not less warmly backed by Mrs. Campion. 

“ For my part,” said Lady Glenalvon,' in conciliatory 
accents, “ I think every able man in Parliament is a gain to 
the country; and he may not serve his country less effec¬ 
tively because he does not boast of his love for it- Th^ 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


4*9 


poluicians I dread most are those so rampant in France 
nowadays, the bawling patriots. When Sir Robert Walpole 
said, ‘All those men have their price,’ he pointed to the 
men who called themselves ‘ patriots.’ ” 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Travers. 

“ Sir Robert Walpole showed his love for his country by 
corrupting it. There are many ways besides bribing for 
corrupting a country,” said Kenelm, mildly ; and that was 
Kenelm’s sole contribution to the general conversation. 

It was not till the rest of the party had retired to rest, 
that the conference, longed for by Kenelm, dreaded by Sir 
Peter, took place in the library. It lasted deep into the 
night ; both parted with lightened hearts and a fonder affec¬ 
tion for each other. Kenelm had drawn so charming a pict¬ 
ure of the Fairy, and so thoroughly convinced Sir Peter that 
his own feelings towards her were those of no passing youth¬ 
ful fancy, but of that love which has its roots in the innermost 
heart, that though it was still with a sigh, a deep sigh, that 
he dismissed the thought of Cecilia, Sir Peter did dismiss 
it ; and, taking comfort at last from the positive assurance 
that Lily was of gentle birth, and the fact that her name of 
Mordaunt was that of ancient and illustrious houses, said, 
with half a smile, “ It might have been worse, my dear boy. 
I began to be afraid that, in spite of the teachings of Mivers 
and Welby, it was ‘The Miller’s Daughter,’ after all. But 
we still have a difficult task to persuade your poor mother. 
In covering your first flight from our roof I unluckily put 
into her head the notion of Lady Jane, a duke’s daughter, 
and the notion has never got out of it. That comes of fib¬ 
bing.” 

“ I count on Lady Glenalvon’s influence on my mothei 
in support of your own,” said Kenelm. “ If so accepted an 
oracle in the great world pronounce in my favor, and prom 
ise to present my wife at Court and bring her into fashion 
I think that my mother will consent to allow us to reset th^ 
old family diamonds for her next re-appearance in London. 
And then, too, you can tell her that I will stand for the 
county. I will go into Parliament, and if I meet there our 
clever cousin, and find that he does not care a brass button 
for the country, take my word for it, I will lick him mors* 
easily than I licked Tom Bowles.” 

“ Tom Bowles ! Who is he ?—ah! I remember some let 
ter of yours in which you spoke of a Bowles, whose favorit«» 
^tud^ was mankind, a moral philosopher,” 


420 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 


“ Moral philosophers,” answered Kenelm, ^‘have so mud 
died their brains with the alcohol of new ideas that their 
moral legs have become shaky, and the humane would rather 
help them to bed than give them a licking. My Tom Bow¬ 
les is a muscular Christian, who became no less muscular, 
but much more Christian, after he was licked.” 

And in this pleasant manner these two oddities settled 
their conference, and went up to bed with arms wrapt round 
each other’s shoulder. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Kenelm found it a much harder matter to win Lady Glen- 
alvon to his side than he had anticipated. With the strong 
interest she had taken in Kenelm’s future, she could not but 
revolt from the idea of his union with an obscure portionless 
girl whom he had only known a few weeks, and of whose 
very parentage he seemed to know nothing, save an assur¬ 
ance that she was his equal in birth. And, with the desire, 
which she had cherished almost as fondly as Sir Peter, that 
Kenelm might win a bride in every way so worthy of his 
choice as Cecilia Travers, she felt not less indignant than 
regretful at the overthrow of her plans. 

At first, indeed, she was so provoked that she w*ould not 
listen to his pleadings. She broke away from him with a 
rudeness she had never exhibited to any one before, refused 
to grant him another interview in order to re-discuss the 
matter, and said that, so far from using her influence in 
favor of his romantic folly, she would remonstrate well with 
Lady Chillingly and Sir Peter against yielding their assent 
to his “thus throwing himself away.” 

It was not till the third day after his arrival that, touched 
by the grave but haughty mournfulness of his countenance, 
she yielded to the arguments of Sir Peter in the course of a 
private conversation with that worthy baronet. Still it was 
reluctantly (she did not fulfil her threat of remonstrance 
with Lady Chillingly) that she conceded the point, that a 
son who, succeeding to the absolute fee-simple of an estate, 
had volunteered the resettlement of it on terms singularly 
generous to both his parents, was entitled to some sacrifice 
of their inclinations on a question in which he deemed his 



REr^ELM cmiLUStGL K 


4I1 


happiness vitally concerned ; and that he was of age to 
choose for himself, independently of their consent, but for a 
previous promise extracted from him by his father, a prom¬ 
ise which, rigidly Construed, was not extended to Lady 
Chillingly, but confined to Sir Peter as the head of the fam¬ 
ily and master of the household. The father’s consent w’as 
already given, and, if in his reverence for both parents Ken- 
elm could not dispense with his mother’s approval, surely 
it was the part of a true friend to remove every scruple from 
his conscience, and smooth away every obstacle to a love 
not to be condemned because it was disinterested. 

After this conversation Lady Glenalvon sought Kenelm, 
found him gloomily musing on the banks of the trout stream, 
took his arm, led him into the sombre glades of the fir grove, 
and listened patiently to all he had to say. Even then her 
woman’s heart was not won to his reasonings, until he said, 
pathetically, “You thanked me once for saving your son’s 
life ; you said then that you could never repay me ; you can 
repay me tenfold. Could your son, who is now, we trust, in 
heaven, look down and judge between us, do you think he 
would approve you if you refuse ? ” 

Then Lady Glenalvon wept, and took his hand, kissed 
his forehead as a mother might kiss it, and said, “ You 
triumph, I will go to Lady Chillingly at once. Marry her 
whom you so love, on one condition : marry her from my 
house.” 

Lady Glenalvon was not one of those women who serve 
a friend by halves. She knew well how to propitiate and 
reason down the apathetic temperament of Lady Chillingly ; 
she did not cease till that lady herself came into Kenelm’s 
room, and said, very quietly : 

“So you are going to propose to Miss Mordaunt ?—the 
Warwickshire Mordaunts, I suppose. Lady Glenalvon says 
she is a very lovely girl, and will stay with her before the wed¬ 
ding. And, as the young lady is an orphan. Lady Glenalvon’s 
uncle the Duke, who is connected with the eldest branch of 
the Mordaunts, will give her away. It will be a very bril¬ 
liant affair. I am sure I wish you happy : it is time you 
should have sown your wild oats.” 

Two days after the consent thus formally given, Kenelm 
quitted Exmundham. Sir Peter would have accompanied 
him to pay his respects to the intended, but the agitation 
he had gone through brought on a sharp twinge of the gout 
which consigned his feet to flannels. 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 




After Kenelm had gone, Lady Glenalvort went into Cech 
lias room. Cecilia was seated very desolately by the open 
window ; she had detected that something of an anxious 
and painful nature had been weighing upon the minds of 
father and son, and had connected it with the letter which 
had so disturbed the even mind of Sir Peter ; but she did 
not divine what the something was, and if mortified by a 
certain reserve, more distant than heretofore, which had 
characterized Kenelm’s manner towards herself, the morti¬ 
fication was less sensibly felt than a tender sympathy for the 
sadness she had observed on his face, and yearned to soothe. 
His reserve had, however, made her own manner more 
reserved than of old, for which she was now rather chiding 
herself than reproaching him. 

Lady Glenalvon put her arms round Cecilia’s neck and 
kissed her, whispering, “ That man has so disappointed me ! 
he is so unworthy of the happiness I had once hoped for 
him! ” 

“Whom do you speak of?” murmured Cecilia, turning 
very pale. 

“Kenelm Chillingly. It seems that he has conceived a 
fancy for some penniless girl whom he has met in his wan¬ 
derings, has come here to get the consent of his parents to 
propose to her, has obtained their consent, and is gone to 
propose.” 

Cecilia remained silent for a moment with her eyes clos¬ 
ed, then she said, “ He is worthy of all happiness, and he 
would never make an unworthy choice. Heaven bless him 

—and—and-” She would have added “ His bride,” but 

her lips refused to utter the word bride. 

“ Cousin Gordon is worth ten of him,” cried Lady Glen¬ 
alvon, indignantly. 

She had served Kenelm, but she had not forgiven him. 


CHAPTER V. 

Kenelm slept in London that night, and, the next day 
being singularly fine for an English summer, he resolved to 
go to Moleswich on foot. He had no need this time to 
encumber himself with a knapsack ; he had left sufficient 
change of dress in his lodgings at Cromwell Lodge. 




ICENELiM CHILLINGLY. 


42] 


It Was towards the evening when he found himself in one 
of the prettiest rural villages by which 


“ Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver-winding way.” 

It was not in the direct road from London to Moleswich. 
but it was a pleasanter way for a pefdestrian. And when, 
quitting the long street of the sultry village, he came to the 
shelving margin of the river, he was glad to rest awhile, 
enjoy the cool of the rippling waters, and listen to their 
placid murmurs amid the rushes in the bordering shallows. 
He had ample time before him. His rambles while at 
Cromwell Lodge had made him familiar with the district for 
miles round Moleswich, and he knew that a footpath througli 
the fields at the right would lead him, in less than an hour, 
to the side of the tributary brook on which Cromwell Lodge 
was placed, opposite the wooden bridge which conducted to 
Grasmere and Moleswich. 

To one who loves the romance of history, English history, 
the whole course of the Thames is full of charm. Ah ! 
could I go back to the days in which younger generations 
than that of Kenelm Chillingly were unborn, when every 
wave of the Rhine spoke of history and romance to me, what 
fairies should meet on thy banks, O thou, our own Father 
Thames ! Perhaps some day a German pilgrim may repay 
tenfold to thee the tribute rendered by the English kinsman 
to the Father Rhine. 

Listening to the whispers of the reeds, Kenelm Chillingly 
felt the haunting influence of the legendary stream. Many 
a poetic incident or tradition in antique chronicle, many a 
votive rhyme in song, dear to forefathers whose very names 
have become a poetry to us, thronged dimly and confusedly 
back to his memory, which had little cared to retain such 
graceful trinkets in the treasure-house of love. But every¬ 
thing that, from childhood upward, connects itself with 
romance, revives with yet fresher bloom in the memories 
of him who loves. 

And to this man, through the first perilous season of 
youth so abnormally safe from youth’s most wonted peril,— 
to this would-be pupil of realism, this learned adept in the 
schools of a Welby or a Mivers, —to this man. Love came at 
last as with the fatal powers of the fabled Cyiherea, and with 
that love all the realisms of life became ideals, all the stern 


424 


CfilLUNGLY. 


lines of our commonplace destinies undulating into curvea 
of beauty, all the trite sounds of our every-day life attuned 
into delicacies of song. How full of sanguine yet dreamy 
bliss was his heart,—and seemed his future,—in the gentle 
breeze and the softened glow of that summer eve ! He should 
see Lily the next morn, and his lips were now free to say all 
that they had as yet suppressed. 

Suddenly he was roused from the half-awake half-asleep 
happiness that belongs to the moments in which we trans¬ 
port ourselves into Elysium, by the carol of a voice more 
loudly joyous than that of his own heart: 

“ Singing—singing, 

Lustily singing, 

Down the road, with his dogs before. 

Came the Ritter of Neirestein.” 

Kenelm turned his head so quickly that he frightened 
Max, who had for the last minute been standing behind him 
inquisitively with one paw raised, and sniffing, in some doubt 
whether he recognized an old acquaintance ; but at Ken- 
elm’s quick movement the animal broke into a nervous bark, 
and ran back to his master. 

The Minstrel, little heeding the figure reclined on the 
bank, would have passed on with his light tread and his 
cheery carol, but Kenelm rose to his feet, and holding out 
his hand, said, “ I hope you don’t share Max’s alarm at 
meeting me again ? ” 

“ Ah, my young philosopher, is it indeed you 

“ If I am to be designated a philosopher, it is certainly 
not I. And, honestly speaking, I am not the same. I, who 
spent that pleasant day with you among the fields round 
Luscombe two years ago-” 

“ Or who advised me at Tor Hadham to string my lyre 
to the praise of a beefsteak. I too am not quite the same, 
I whose dog presented you with the begging-tray.” 

“Yet you still go through the world singing.” 

“ Even that vagrant singing-time is pretty well over 
But I disturbed you from your repose. I would rathei 
share it ; you are probably not going my way, and, as I am 
in no hurry, I should not like to lose the opportunity chance 
has so happily given me of renewing acquaintance with one 
who has often been present in my thoughts since we last 
met.” Thus saying, the Minstrel stretched himself at ease 
on the bank, and Kenelm followed his example. 



KENELM CBILLTNGLV. 


425 


There certainly was a change in the owner of the dog 
with the begging-tray, a change in costume, in countenance, 
in that indescribable self-evidence which we call “ manner.” 
The costume was not that Bohemian attire in which Kenelm 
had first encountered the Wandering Minstrel, nor the 
studied, more graceful garb which so well became his shape¬ 
ly form during his visit to Luscombe. It was now neatly 
simple, the cool and quiet summer dress any English gentle¬ 
man might adopt in a long rural walk. And as he uncov¬ 
ered his head to court the cooling breeze, there was a 
graver dignity in the man’s handsome Rubens-like face, a 
line of more concentrated thought in the spacious forehead, 
a thread or two of gray shimmering here and there through 
the thick auburn curls of hair and beard. And in his man¬ 
ner, though still very frank, there was just perceptible a 
sort of self-assertion, not offensive, but manly ; such as does 
not misbecome one of maturer years, and of some estab¬ 
lished position, addressing another man much younger than 
himself, who in all probability has achieved no position at 
all beyond that which the accident of birth might assign to 
him. 

“Yes,” said the Minstrel, with a half-suppressed sigh, 
“ the last year of my vagrant holidays has come to its close. 
I recollect that the first day we met by the roadside foun¬ 
tain I advised you to do like me, seek amusement and ad¬ 
venture as a foot-traveller. Now, seeing you, evidently a 
gentleman by education and birth, still a foot-traveller, I feel 
as if I ought to say, ‘ You have had enough of such ex¬ 
perience ; vagabond life has its perils as well as charms ; 
cease it and settle down.’ ” 

“ I think of doing so,” replied Kenelm, laconically. 

“ In a profession ?—army—law—medicine ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Ah, in marriage then. Right ; give me your hand on 
that. So a petticoat indeed has at last found its charm for 
you in the actual world as well as on the canvas of a pic¬ 
ture ? ” 

“ I conclude,” said Kenelm,—evading any direct notice 
of that playful taunt,—“ I conclude from your remark that 
it is in marriageare about to settle down.” 

“ Ay, could I have done so before I should have been 
saved from many errors, and been many years nearer to the 
goal which dazzled my sight tlirough the haze of my boyish 
dreams.’' 


426 


KEN ELM CINLLINCL V. 


“ What is that goal —the grave ? ” 

“ The grave ! That which allows of no grave—Fame.*’ 

“I see — despite of what you just now said — you still 
mean to go through the world seeking a poet’s fame.” 

“Alas! I resign that fancy,” said the Minstrel, with 
another half sigh. “It was not indeed wholly, but in great 
part, the hope of the poet’s fame that made me a truant in 
the way to that which destiny and such few gifts as nature 
conceded to me, marked out for my proper and only goal. 
But what a strange, delusive Will-o’-the-Wisp the love of 
verse-making is ! How rarely a man of good sense deceives 
himself as to other things for which he is fitted, in which he 
can succeed ! but let him once drink into his being the 
charm of verse-making, how the glamour of the charm be¬ 
witches his understanding 1 how long it is before he can 
believe that the world will not take his word for it when he 
cries out to sun, moon, and stars, ‘ I too am a poet.’ And 
with what agonies, as if at the wrench of soul from life, he 
resigns himself at last to the conviction, that whether he or 
the world be right, it comes to the same thing ! Who can 
plead his cause before a court that will not give him a hear¬ 
ing ? ” 

It w'as with an emotion so passionately strong, and so 
intensely painful, that the owner of the dog with the beg¬ 
ging-tray thus spoke, that Kenelm felt, through sympathy, as 
if he himself were torn asunder by the wrench of life from 
soul. But then Kenelm was a mortal so eccentric that, if a 
single acute suffering endured by a fellow-mortal could be 
brought before the evidence of his senses, I doubt whether 
he would not have suffered as much as that fellow-mortal. 
So that, though if there were a thing in the world which 
Kenelm Chillingly would care not to do, it was verse-making, 
his mind involuntarily hastened to the arguments by which 
he could best mitigate the pang of the verse-maker. 

Quoth he, “According to my very scanty reading, you 
share the love of verse-making with men the most illustrious 
in careers which have achieved the goal of fame. It must, 
then, be a very noble love—Augustus, Pollio, Varius, Maece¬ 
nas—the greatest statesmen of their day ; they were verse- 
makers. Cardinal Richelieu was a verse-maker ; Walter 
Raleigh and Philip Sidney ; Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Warren 
Hastings, Canning—even the grave William Pitt ; all were 
verse-makers. Verse-making did not retard—no doubt the 
qualities essential to verse-making accelerated—their race; 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


427 


to the goal of fame. What great painters have been verse- 
makers ! Michael Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Salvator 
Rosa ”—and Heaven knows how many other great names 
Kerielm Chillingly might have proceeded to add to his list, 
if the Minstrel had not here interposed. 

“ What! all those mighty painters were verse-makers ? ” 

“ Verse-makers so good, especially Michael Angelo—the 
greatest painter of all—that they would have had the fame 
of poets, if, unfortunately for that goal of fame, their glory 
in the sister art of painting did not outshine it. But, when 
you give to your gift of song the modest title of verse-mak¬ 
ing, permit me to observe that your gift is perfectly distinct 
from that of the verse-maker. Your gift, whatever it may 
be, could not exist without some sympathy with the non- 
verse-making human heart. No doubt, in your foot-travels, 
you have acquired not only observant intimacy with external 
nature in the shifting hues at each hour of a distant moun¬ 
tain, in the lengthening shadows wdiich yon sunset casts on 
the waters at our feet, in the habits of the thrush dropped 
fearlessly close beside me, in that turf moistened by its 
neighborhood to those dripping rushes, all of which I could 
describe no less accurately than you—as a Peter Bell might 
describe them no less accurately than a William Words¬ 
worth. But in such songs of yours as you have permitted 
me to hear, you seem to have escaped out of that elemen¬ 
tary accidenoe of the poet’s art, and to touch, no matter 
how slightly, on the only lasting interest which the univer¬ 
sal heart of man can have in the song of the poet, viz., in 
the sound which the poet’s individual sympathy draws forth 
from the latent chords in that universal heart. As for wluit 
you call ‘ the world,’ what is it more than the fashion of the 
present day ? How far the judgment of that is worth a 
poet’s pain I can’t pretend to say. But of one thing I am 
sure, that while I could as easily square the circle as com¬ 
pose a simple couplet addressed to the heart of a simple 
audience with sufficient felicity to decoy their praises into 
Max’s begging-tray, I could spin out by the yard the sort 
of verse-making which characterizes the fashion of the pres¬ 
ent day.” 

Much flattered, and not a little amused, the Wandering 
Minstrel turned his bright countenance, no longer dimmed 
by a cloud, towards that of his lazily reclined consoler, and 
an severed gayly : 

“ You say that you could spin out by the yard verses in 


428 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


the fashion of the present day. I wish you would give me a 
specimen of your skill in that handiwork.” 

“ Very well ; on one condition, that you will repay my 
trouble by a specimen of your own verses, not in the fashion 
of the present day,—something which I can construe. I 
defy you to construe mine.” 

“ Agreed.” 

“ Well, then, let us take it for granted that this is the 
Augustan age of English poetry, and that the English lan^ 
guage is dead, like the Latin. Suppose I am writing for a 
prize medal, in English, as I wrote at college for a prize 
medal, in Latin ; of course I shall be successful in propor¬ 
tion as I introduce the verbal elegances peculiar to our Au¬ 
gustan age, and also catch the prevailing poetic character¬ 
istic of that classical epoch. 

“Now, I think that every observant critic will admit 
that the striking distinctions of the poetry most in the fash¬ 
ion of the present day, viz., of the Augustan age, are—first, 
a selection of such verbal elegances as would have been 
most repulsive to the barbaric taste of the preceding cen¬ 
tury, and, secondly, a very lofty disdain of all prosaic con¬ 
descensions to common sense, and an elaborate cultivation 
of that element of the sublime which Mr. Burke defines 
under the head of obscurity. 

“ These premises conceded, I will only ask you to choose 
the metre. Blank verse is very much in fashion just 
now.” 

“ Pooh,—blank verse, indeed ! I am not going so to tree 
your experiment from the difficulties of rhyme.” 

“ It is all one to me,” said Kenelm, yawning. “ Rhyme 
be it : Heroic, or lyrical?” 

“ Heroics are old-fashioned ; but the Chaucer couplet, 
as brought to perfection by our modern poets, I think the 
best adapted to dainty leaves and uncrackable nuts.” 

“ I accept the modern Chaucerian.” 

“ The subject ? ” 

“Oh, never trouble yourself about that. By whatever 
title your Augustan verse-maker labels his poem, his genius, 
like Pindar’s, disdains to be cramped by the subject. Lis¬ 
ten, and don’t suffer Max to howl, if he can help it. Here 
goes.” 

And in an affected, but emphatic, sing-song, Kenelm 
began : 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


42 f 


** In Attica the gentle Pythias dwelt. 

Youthful he was, and passing rich : he felt 
As if nor youth nor riches could suffice 
For bliss. Dark-eyed Sophronia was a nice 
Girl: and one summer day, when Neptune drovs 
His sea-car slowly, and the olive grove 
That .skirts Ilissus, to thy shell, Harmonia, 

Rippled, he said ‘ I love thee’ to Sophronia. 

Crocus and iris, when they heard him, wagg’d 
Their pretty heads in glee : the honey-bagg’d 
Bees became altars : and the forest dove 
Her plumage smooth’d. Such is the charm of lore. 

Of this sweet story do ye long for more ? 

Wait till I publish it in volumes four ; 

Which certain critics, my good friends, will cry 
Up beyond Chaucer. Take their word for’t. I 
Say * Trust them: but not read,—or you’ll not buy.* ** 


“ You have certainly kept your word,” said the Minstrel, 
laughing. “ And if this be the Augustan age, and the Eng¬ 
lish were a dead language, you deserve to win the prize 
medal.” 

“You flatter me,” said Kenelm, modestly. “But if I, 
who never before strung two rhymes together, can impro¬ 
vise so readily in the style of the present day, why should 
not a practical rhymester like yourself dash olf at a sitting 
a volume or so in the same style, disguising completely the 
verbal elegances borrowed, adding to the delicacies of the 
rhyme by the frequent introduction of a line that will not 
scan, and towering yet more into the sublime by becoming 
yet more unintelligible ? Do that, and I promise you the 
most glowing panegyric in ‘ The Londoner,’ for I will write 
it myself.” 

“‘The Londoner’!” exclaimed the Minstrel, with an 
angry flush on his cheek and brow. “ My bitter, relentless 
enemy.” 

“ I fear, then, you have as little studied the critical press 
of the Augustan age as you have imbued your Muse with 
the classical spirit of its verse. For the art of writing, a 
man must cultivate himself. The art of being reviewed 
consists in cultivating the acquaintance of reviewers. In 
the Augustan age criticism is cliqueism. Belong to a 
clique, and you are Horace or Tibullus. Belong to no 
clique, and of course you are Bavius or Maevius. ‘The 
Londoner ’ is the enemy of no man—it holds all men in 
equal contempt. But as, in order to amuse, it must abuse, 
it compensates the praise it is compelled to bestow upon 


KEN ELM C III L LING L Y. 


4 . 11 C 

iTie members of its clique by heaping additioral scorn upon 
all who are cliqueless. Hit him hard, he has no friends.” 

“Ah,” said the Minstrel, “ I believe that thei^e is much 
truth in what you say. I never had a friend among the 
cliques. And Heaven knows with what pertinacity those 
from whom I, in utter ignorance of the rules which govern 
the so-called organs of opinion, had hoped, in my time of 
struggle, for a little sympathy,—a kindly encouragement,— 
have combined to crush me down. They succeeded long. 
But at last I venture to hope that I am beating them. Hap¬ 
pily, Nature endowed me with a sanguine, joyous, elastic 
temperament. He who never despairs seldom completely 
fails.” 

This speech rather perplexed Kenelm ; for had not the 
Minstrel declared that his singing days were over, that he 
had decided on the renunciation of verse-making? What 
other path to fame, from which the critics had not been able 
to exclude his steps, was he, then, now pursuing ? he whom 
Kenelm had assumed to belong to some commercial money¬ 
making firm. No doubt some less difficult prose-track ; 
probably a novel. Everybody writes novels nowadays, and 
as the public will read novels without being told to do so, 
and will not read poetry unless they are told that they 
ought, possibly novels are not quite so much at the mercy 
of cliques as are the poems of our Augustan age. 

However, Kenelm did not think of seeking for further 
confidence on that score. His mind at that moment, not 
unnaturally, wandered from books and critics to love and 
wedlock. 

“ Our talk,” said he, “ has digressed into fretful courses 
—permit me to return to the starting-point. You are going 
to settle down into the peace of home. A peaceful home is 
like a good conscience. The rains without do not pierce its 
roof, the winds without do not shake its walls. If not an 
impertinent question, is it long since you have known your 
intended bride ?” 

“Yes, very long.” 

“ And always loved her ? ” 

“ Always, from her infancy. Out of all womankind, she 
was designed to be my life’s playmate and my soul’s purifier. 
I know not what might have become of me, if the thought 
of her had not walked beside me, as my guardian angel. 
For, like many vagrants from the beaten high-roads of the 
world, there is in my nature something of that lawlessness 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


43» 

which belongs to high animal spirits, to the zest of adven¬ 
ture, and the warm blood which runs into song, chiefly be¬ 
cause song is the voice of a joy. And, no doubt, when I look 
back on the past years 1 must own that I have too often 
been led astray from the objects set before my reason, and 
cherished at my heart, by erring impulse or wanton fancy.” 

“ Petticoat interest, I presume,” interposed Kenelm, 
dryly. 

“ I wish I could honestly answer ‘ No,’ ” said the Minstrel, 
coloring high. But from the worst, from all that would 
have permanently blasted the career to which I intrust my 
fortunes, all that would have rendered me unworthy of the 
pure love that now, I trust, awaits and crowns my dreams of 
happiness, I have been saved by the haunting smile in a sin¬ 
less infantine face. Only once was I in great peril : that 
hour of peril I recall with a shudder. It was at Luscombe.” 

“ At Luscombe ! ” 

“ In the temptation of a terrible crime I thought I heard 
a voice say, ‘ Mischief ! Remember the little child.’ In 
that supervention which is so readily accepted as a divine 
warning when the imagination is morbidly excited, and 
when the conscience, though lulled asleep for a moment, is 
still asleep so lightly that the sigh of a breeze, the fall of a 
leaf, can awake it with a start of terror, I took the voice for 
that of my guardian angel. Thinking over it later, and 
coupling the voice with the moral of those weird lines you 
repeated to me so appositely the next day, I conclude thfit I 
am not mistaken when I say it was from your lips that the 
voice which prdserved me came.” 

“ I confess the impertinence—you pardon it ! ” 

The Minstrel seized Kenelm’s hand and pressed it earn¬ 
estly. 

“ Pardon it! Oh, could you but guess what cause I have 
to be grateful, everlastingly grateful ! That sudden cry, the 
remorse and horror of my own self that it struck into me— 
deepened by those rugged lines which the next day made 
me shrink in dismay from ‘ the face of my darling sin ’ ! 
Then came the turning-point of my life. From that day, 
the lawless A^agabond within me was killed. I mean not, 
indeed, the love of nature and of song which had first al¬ 
lured the vagabond, but the hatred of steadfast habits and 
of serious work —that was killed. I no longer trifled with 
my calling ; I took to it as a serious duty. And when I 
saw her whom Fate has reserved and reared for my brid^, 


432 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


her face was no longer in my eyes that of the playful 
child ; the soul of the woman was dawning into it. It is but 
two years since that day, to me so eventful. Yet my fortunes 
are now secured. And if fame be not established, I am at 
last in a position which warrants my saying to her I love, 
‘ The time has come when, without fear for thy future, I can 
ask thee to be mine.’ ” 

The man spoke with so fervent a passion that Kenelm 
silently left him to recover his wonted self-possession,—not 
unwilling to be silent,—not unwilling, in the softness of the 
hour, passing from roseate sunset into starry twilight, to 
murmur to himself, “ And the time, too, has come for me.” 

After a few moments the Minstrel resumed lightly and 
cheerily : 

“ Sir, your turn : pray, have you long known—judging 
by our former conversation, you cannot have longed loved— 
the lady whom you have wooed and won ? ” 

As Kenelm had neither as yet wooed nor won the lady 
in question, and did not deem it necessary to enter into any 
details on the subject of love particular to himself, he re¬ 
plied by a general observation : 

“ It seems to me that the coming of love is like the com¬ 
ing of spring—the date is not to be reckoned by the calen¬ 
dar. It may be slow and gradual, it may be quick and 
sudden. But in the morning, when we wake and recognize 
a change in the world without, verdure on the trees, blos¬ 
soms on the sward, warmth in the sunshine, music in the 
air, then we say Spring has come ! ” 

“ I like your illustration. And if it be an idle question 
to ask a lover how long he has known the beloved one, so 
it is almost as idle to ask if she be not beautiful. He can¬ 
not but see in her face the beauty she has given to the 
world without.” 

“ True ; and that thought is poetic enough to make me 
remind you that I favored you wnth the maiden specimen 
of my verse-making on condition that you repaid me by a 
specimen of your own practical skill in the art. And I 
claim the right to suggest the theme. Let it be-” 

“ Of a beef-steak ?” 

“ Tush ! you have worn out that tasteless joke at my ex¬ 
pense. The theme must be of love, and if you could im 
provise a stanza or tw^o expressive of the idea you just ut¬ 
tered I shall listen with yet more pleased attention.” 

“Alas! I am no improvisatore. Yet I will avenge my« 



KENELM CHILLINGL Y. 


433 


self on your former neglect of my craft by chanting to you 
a trifle somewhat in unison with the thought you ask me to 
versify, but which you would not stay to hear at Tor Had- 
ham (though you did drop a shilling into Max’s tray)—it 
was one of the songs I sang that evening, and it was not ill 
received by my humble audience. 

THE BEAUTY OF THE MISTRESS IS IN THE LOVER’S EYE. 

“ Is she not pretty, my Mabel May ? 

Nobody ever yet called her so. 

Are not her lineaments faultless, say ? 

If I must answer you plainly—No. 

“ Joy to believe that the maid I love 
None but myself as she is can see ; 

Joy that she steals from her heaven above 
And is only revealed on this earth to me ! ” 

As soon as he had finished this very artless ditty, the 
Minstrel rose and said : 

“ Now I must bid you good-bye. My way lies through 
those meadows, and yours, no doubt, along the high-road.” 

“ Not so. Permit me to accompany you. I have a lodg¬ 
ing not far from hence, to which the path through the fields 
is the shortest way.” 

The Minstrel turned a somewhat surprised and some¬ 
what inquisitive look towards Kenelm. But feeling, per¬ 
haps, that having withheld from his fellow-traveller all con¬ 
fidence as to his own name and attributes, he had no right 
to ask any confidence from that gentleman not voluntarily 
made to him, he courteously said that he wished the way 
were longer, since it would be so pleasantly halved, and 
itrode forth at a brisk pace. 

The twilight was now closing into the brightness of a 
starry summer night, and the solitude of the fields was un¬ 
broken. Both these men, walking side by side, felt su¬ 
premely happy. But happiness is like wine ; its effect dif- 
feringwith the differing temperaments on which it acts. In 
this case garrulous and somewhat vaunting with the one 
man, warm-colored, sensuous, impressionable to the in¬ 
fluences of external nature, as an A£olian harp to the rise 
or fall of a passing wind ; and, with the other man, taciturn 
and somewhat modestly expressed, saturnine, meditative, 
not indeed dull to the influences of external nature, but deem* 


10 


434 


KEN ELM CHI LUNG I V. 


ing them of no value save where they passed out of the do* 
main of the sensuous into that of the intellectual, and the 
soul of man dictated to the soulless nature its own ques¬ 
tions and its own replies. 

The Minstrel took the talk on himself, and the talk 
charmed his listener. It became so readily eloquent in the 
tones of its utterance, in the frank play of its delivery, that 
I could no more adequately describe it than a reporter, 
however faithful to every word a true orator may say, can 
describe that which, apart from all words, belongs to the 
presence of the orator himself. 

Not, then, venturing to report the language of this sin¬ 
gular itinerant, I content myself with saying that the sub¬ 
stance of it was of the nature on which it is said most men 
can be eloquent : it was personal to himself. He spoke of 
aspirations towards the achievement of a name, dating 
back to the dawn of memory ; of early obstacles in lowly 
birth, stinted fortunes ; of a sudden opening to his ambition, 
while yet in boyhood, through the generous favor of a rich 
man, who said, “The child has genius, I will give it the dis¬ 
cipline of culture, one day it shall repay to the world what it 
owes to me of studies passionately begun, earnestly pur¬ 
sued, and mournfully suspended in early youth. He did 
not say how or wherefore : he rushed on to dwell upon the 
struggles for a livelihood for himself and those dependent on 
him ; how in such struggles he was compelled to divert toil 
and energy from the systematic pursuit of the object he had 
once set before him ; the necessities for money were too 
urgent to be postponed to the visions of fame. “ But even,” 
he exclaimed, passionately, “even in such hasty and crude 
manifestations of what is within me, as circumstances lim¬ 
ited my powers, I know that I ought to have found from 
those who profess to be authoritative judges the encourage¬ 
ment of praisew How much better, then, I should have 
done if I had found it! How a little praise warms out of a 
man the good that is in him, and the sneer of a contempt 
which he feels to be unjust chills the ardor to excel! How¬ 
ever, I forced my way, so far as was then most essential to 
me, the sufficing bread-maker for those I loved ; and in my 
holidays of song and ramble I found a delight that atoned 
for all the rest. But still the desire of fame, once conceived 
in childhood, once nourished through youth, never dies but 
in our grave. Foot and hoof may tread it down, bud, leaf, 
^talk ; its root is too deep below the surface for them to 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


435 


reach, and year after year stalk and leaf and bud re-emerge. 
Love may depart from our mortal life ; we console ourselves 
—the beloved will be united to us in the life to come. 
But if he who sets his heart on fame loses it in this life, 
what can console him ? ” 

“ Did you not say a little while ago that fame allowed 
of no grave ? ” 

“True; but if we do not achieve it before we ourselves 
are in the grave, what comfort can it give to us? Love as¬ 
cends to heaven, to which we hope ourselves to ascend ; but 
fame remains on the earth, which we shall never again re¬ 
visit. And it is because fame is earth-born that the desire 
for it is the most lasting, the regret for the want of it the 
most bitter, to the child of earth. But I shall achieve it 
now ; it is already in my grasp.” 

By this time the travellers had arrived at the brook, fac¬ 
ing the wooden bridge beside Cromwell Lodge. 

Here the Minstrel halted ; and Kenelm, with a certain 
tremble in his voice, said, “Is it not time that we should 
make ourselves known to each other by name ? I have no 
longer any cause to conceal mine, indeed I never had any 
cause stronger than whim—Kenelm Chillingly, the only son 
of Sir Peter, of Exmundham,-shire.” 

“ I wish your father joy of so clever a son,” said the 
Minstrel, with his wonted urbanity. “You already know 
enough of me to be aware that I am of much humbler birth 
and station than you ; but if you chance to have visited the 
exhibition of the Royal Academy this year—ah ! I under¬ 
stand that start—you might have recognized a picture of 
which you have seen the rudimentary sketch, ‘ The girl with 
the flower ball,’ one of three pictures very severely handled 
by ‘The Londoner,’ but, in spite of that potent enemy, in¬ 
suring fortune and promising fame to the Wandering Min¬ 
strel, whose name, if the sight of the pictures had induced 
you to inquire into that, you would have found to be Wal¬ 
ter Melville. Next January I hope, thanks to that picture, 
to add ‘Associate of the Royal Academy.’ The public will 
not let them keep me out of it, in spite of ‘The Londoner.’ 
You are probably an expected guest at one of the more im¬ 
posing villas from which we see the distant lights. I am 
going to a very humble cottage, in which henceforth I hope 
to find my established home. I am there now only for a 
few days, but pray let me welcome you there before I leave 
The cottage is called Grasmere.” 



436 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


CHAPTER VL 

The Minstrel gave a cordial parting shake of the 
to the fellow-traveller whom he had advised to settle down, 
not noticing how very cold had become the hand in his own 
genial grasp. Lightly he passed over the wooden bridge, 
preceded by Max, and merrily, when he had gained the other 
side of the bridge, came upon Kenelm’s ear, through the 
hush of the luminous night, the verse of the uncompleted 
love-song: 

“ Singing—singing, 

Lustily singing, 

Down the road, with his dogs before. 

Came the Ritter of Neirestein.” 

Love-song, uncompleted—why uncompleted ? It was not 
given to Kenelm to divine the why. It was a love-song 
versifying one of the prettiest fairy-tales in the world, 
which was a great favorite with Lily, and which Lion had 
promised Lily to versify, but only to complete it in her 
presence and to her perfect satisfaction. 


CHAPTER VII. 

If I could not venture to place upon paper the exact 
words of an eloquent coveter of fame, the earth-born, still 
less can I dare to place upon paper ail that passed through 
the voiceless heart of a coveter of love, the heaven-born. 

From the hour in which Kenelm Chillingly had parted 
from Walter Melville until somewhere between sunrise and 
noon the next day, the summer joyousness of that external 
nature which does now and then, though for the most part 
deceitfully, address to the soul of man questions and an¬ 
swers all her soulless own, laughed away the gloom of his 
misgivings. 

No doubt this Walter Melville was the beloved guardian 
of Lily; no doubt it was Lily whom he designated as re« 



KEMELM CrnLlmCLY. 


43? 


served and reared to become his bride. But on that ques¬ 
tion Lily herself had the sovereign voice. It remained yet 
to be seen whether Kenelm had deceived himself in the 
belief that had made the world so beautiful to him since the 
hour of their last parting. At all events it was due to her, 
due even to his rival, to assert his own claim to her choice. 
And the more he recalled all that Lily had ever said to him 
of her guardian, so openly, so frankly, proclaiming affection, 
admiration, gratitude, the more convincingly his reasonings 
allayed his fears, whispering, “So might a child speak of a 
parent: not so does the maiden speak of the man she loves ; 
she can scarcely trust herself to praise.” 

In fine, it was not in despondent mood, nor with deject¬ 
ed looks, that, a little before noon, Kenelm crossed the 
bridge and re-entered the enchanted land of Grasmere. In 
answer to his inquiries, the. servant who opened the door 
said that neither Mr. Melville nor Miss Mordaunt were at 
home ; they had but just gone out together for a walk. He 
was about to turn back, when Mrs. Cameron came into the 
hall, and, rather by gesture than words, invited him to en¬ 
ter. Kenelm followed her into the drawing-room, taking 
his seat beside her. He was about to speak, when she in¬ 
terrupted him in a tone of voice so unlike its usual languor, 
so keen, so sharp, that it sounded like a cry of distress. 

“I was just about to come to you. Happily, however, 
you find me alone, and what may pass between us will be 
soon over. But first tell me—you have seen your parents ; 
you have asked their consent to wed a girl such as I de¬ 
scribed ; tell me, oh, tell me that that consent is refused ! ” 

“ On the contrary, I am here with their full permission 
to ask the hand of your niece.” 

Mrs. Cameron sank back in her chair, rocking herself to 
and fro in the posture of a person in great pain. 

“ I feared that. Walter said he had met you last even¬ 
ing ; that you, like himself, entertained the thought of 
marriage. You, of course, when you learnt his name, must 
have known with whom his thought was connected. Hap¬ 
pily, he could not divine what was the choice to which your 
youthful fancy had been so blindly led.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Cameron,” said Kenelm, very mildly, but 
very firmly, “you were aware of the purpose for which I 
left Moleswich a few days ago, and it seems to me that you 
might have forestalled my intention, the intention which 
brings me thus early to your house. I come to say to Miss 


43^ 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Mordaunt’s guardian, ‘ I ask the hand of your ward. If you 
also woo her, I have a very noble rival. With both of us no 
consideration for our own happiness can be comparable to 
the duty of consulting hers. Let her choose between the 
two.’ ” 

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron; “impossible! 
You know not what you say ; know not, guess not, how 
sacred are the claims of Walter Melville to all that the orphan 
whom he has protected from her very birth can give him in 
return. She has no right to -a preference for another ; her 
heart is too grateful to admit of one. If the choice were 
given to her between him and you, it is he whom she would 
ehoose. Solemnly I assure you of this. Do not, then, subject 
her to the pain of such a choice. Suppose, if you will, that 
you had attracted her fancy, and that now you proclaimed 
your love and urged your suit, she would not, must not, the 
less reject your hand, but you might cloud her happiness in 
accepting Melville’s. Be generous. Conquer your own 
fancy ; it can be but a passing one. Speak not to her, not 
to Mr. Melville, of a wish which can never be realized. Go 
hence, silently, and at once.” 

The words and the manner of the pale imploring woman 
struck a vague awe into the heart of her listener. But he 
did not the less resolutely answer, “I cannot obey you. It 
seems to me that my honor commands me to prove to your 
niece that, if I mistook the nature of her feelings towards 
me, I did not, by word or look, lead her to believe mine to¬ 
wards herself were less in earnest than they are ; and it 
seems scarcely less honorable towards my worthy rival to 
endanger his own future happiness, should he discover later 
that his bride would have been happier with another. Why 
be so mysteriously apprehensive ? If, as you say, with such 
apparent conviction, there is no doubt of your niece’s prefer¬ 
ence for another, at a word from her own lips I depart, and 
you will see me no more. But that word must be said by 
her; and if you will not permit me to ask for it in your own 
house, I will take my chance of finding her now, on her walk 
with Mr. Melville ; and, could he deny me the right to speak 
to her alone, that which I would say can be said in his pres¬ 
ence. Ah ! madam, have you no mercy for the heart that 
you so needlessly torture ? If I must bear the worst, let me 
learn it, and at once.” 

“Learn it, then, from my lips,” said Mrs. Cameron, 
speaking with a voice unnaturally calm, and features rigidly 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


439 


set into stern composure. “ And I place the secret you 
wring from me under the seal of that honor which you so 
vauntingly make your excuse for imperiling the peace of the 
home I ought never to have suffered you to enter. An honest 
couple, of humble station and narrow means, had an only 
son, who evinced in early childhood talents so remarkable 
that they attracted the notice of the father’s employer, a rich 
man of very benevolent heart and very cultivated taste. He 
sent the child, at his expense, to a first-rate commercial 
school, meaning to provide for him later in his own firm. 
The rich man was the head partner of an eminent bank ; 
but very infirm health, and tastes much estranged from 
business, had induced him to retire from all active share in 
the firm, the management of which was confided to a son 
whom he idolized. But th& talents of the p7'otcge\iQ had sent 
to school, there took so passionate a direction towards art, 
and estranged from trade, and his designs in drawing when 
shown to connoisseurs were deemed so promising of 
future excellence, that the patron changed his original in¬ 
tention, entered him as a pupil in the studio of a distinguish¬ 
ed French painter, and afterwards bade him perfect his taste 
by the study of Italian and Flemish masterpieces. 

He was still abroad, when-” here Mrs. Cameron 

stopped, with visible effort, suppressed a sob, and went on, 
whisperingly, through teeth clinched together—“when a 
thunderbolt fell on the house of the patron, shattering his 
fortunes, blasting his name. The son, unknown to the father, 
had been decoyed into speculations, which proved unfortun¬ 
ate ; the loss might have been easily retrieved in the first 
instance, unhappily he took the wrong course to retrieve it, 
and launched into new hazards. I must be brief. One day the 
world was startled by the news that a firm, famed for its 
supposed wealth and solidity, was bankrupt. Dishonesty 
was alleged, was proved, not against the father,—he went 
forth from the trial, censured indeed for neglect, not con¬ 
demned for fraud, but a penniless pauper. The—son—the 
son—the idolized son—was removed from the prisoner’s 
dock, a convicted felon, sentenced to penal servitude. Es¬ 
caped that sentence by—by—you guess—you guess. How 
could he escape except through death ?—death by his own 
guilty deed.” 

Almost as much overpowered by emotion as Mrs. 
Cameron herself, Kenelm covered his bended face with one 



440 


KENELM CHILUNGLY, 


hand, stretching out the other blindly to clasp her own, but 
^he would not take it. 

A dreary foreboding. Again before his eyes rose the 
old gray tower —again in his ears thrilled the tragic tale of 
the Fletwodes. What was yet left untold held the young 
man in spell-bound silence. Mrs. Cameron resumed : 

“ I said the father was a penniless pauper; he died 
lingeringly bed-ridden. But one faithful friend did not de¬ 
sert that bed ; the youth to whose genius his wealth had 
ministered. He had come from abroad with some modest 
savings from the sale of copies or sketches made in Florence. 
These savings kept a roof over the heads of the old man and 
the two helpless broken-hearted women -paupers like himself, 
—his own daughter and his son’s widow. When the savings 
were gone, the young man stooped from his destined calling, 
found employment somehow, no matter how alien to his 
tastes, and these three whom his toil supported never wanted 
a home or food. Well, a few weeks after her husband’s 
terrible death, his young widow (they had not been a year 
married) gave birth to a child—a girl. She did not survive the 
exhaustion of her confinement many days. The shock of her 
death snapped the feeble thread of the poor father’s life. 
Both were borne to the grave on the same day. Before 
they died, both made the same prayer to their sole two 
mourners, the felon’s sister and the old man’s young bene¬ 
factor. The prayer was this, that the new-born infant 
should be reared, however humbly, in ignorance of her 
birth, of a father’s guilt and shame. She was not to pass a 
suppliant for charity to rich and high-born kinsfolk, who 
had vouchsafed no word even of pity to the felon’s guiltless 
father and as guiltless wife. That promise has been kept 
till now. I am that daughter. The name I bear, and the 
name which I gave to my niece, are not ours, save as we 
may indirectly claim them through alliances centuries ago. 
I have never married. I was to have been a bride, bringing 
to the representative of no ignoble house what was to have 
been a princely dower ; the wedding-day was fixed, when 
the bolt fell. I have never again seen my betrothed. He 
went abroad and died there. I think he loved me, he knew 
I loved him. Who can blame him for deserting me? Who 
could marry the felon’s sister! Who would marry the 
fel(3n’s child ? Who, but one ? The man who knows her 
secret, and will guard it; the man who, caring little for other 
education, has helped to instill into her spotless childhood 


KENElM CHTLLTNGLY. 


441 


SO steadfast a love of truth, so exquisite a pride of honor, 
that did she know such ignominy rested on her birth, she 
would pine herself away.” 

“ Is there only one man on earth,” cried Kenelm, sud¬ 
denly, rearing his face,—till then concealed and downcast, 
—and with a loftiness of pride on its aspect, new to its won¬ 
ted mildness, “ Is there only one man who would deem the' 
virgin, at whose feet he desires to kneel and say, ‘ Deign to 
be the queen of my life,’ not far too noble in herself to be 
debased by the sins of others before she was even born ; is 
there only one man who does not think that the love of 
truth and the pride of honor are most royal attributes of 
woman or of man, no matter whether the fathers of the 
woman or the man were pirates as lawless as the fathers of 
Norman kings, or liars as unscrupulous, where their own 
interests were concerned, as have been the crowned repre¬ 
sentatives of lines as deservedly famous as Caesars and 
Bourbons, Tudors and Stuarts ? Nobility, like genius, is 
inborn. One man alone guard her secret!—guard a secret 
that if made known could trouble a heart that recoils from 
shame ! Ah, madam, we Chillinglys are a very obscure 
undistinguished race, but for more than a thousand years 
we have been English gentlemen. Guard her secret rather 
than risk the chance of discov^ery that could give her a 
pang ? I would pass my whole life by her side in 
Kamtchatka, and even there I would not snatch a glimpse of 
the secret itself with mine own eyes, it should be so closely 
muffled and wrapped round by the folds of reverence and 
worship.” 

This burst of passion seemed to Mrs. Cameron the sense¬ 
less declamation of an inexperienced, hot-headed young 
man, and, putting it aside, much as a great lawyer dismisses 
as balderdash the florid rhetoric of some junior counsel, 
rhetoric in which the great lawyer had once indulged, or as 
a woman for whom romance is over dismisses as idle ver¬ 
biage some romantic sentiment that befools her young 
daughter, Mrs. Cameron simply replied, ‘‘All this is hollow 
talk, Mr. Chillingly ; let us come to the point. After all I 
have said, do you mean to persist in your suit to my 
niece ? ” 

“ I persist.” 

“What!” she cried, this time indignantly, and with gen¬ 
erous indignation ; “what, even were it possible that you 
could win your parents’consent to marry the child of a man 

IQ* 


KEXELM CHILLINGL Y. 


condemned to penal servitude, or, consistently with the 
duties a son owes to parents, conceal that fact from them, 
could you, born to a station on which every gossip will ask, 
‘Who and what is the name of the future Lady Chillingly?’ 
believe that the who and the what will never be discovered ? 
Have you, a mere stranger, unknown to us a few weeks ago, 
a right to say to Walter Melville, ‘ Resign to me that which 
is your sole reward for the sublime sacrifices, for the loyal 
devotion, for the watchful tenderness of patient years ’ ? ” 
“Surely, madam,” cried Kenelm, more startled, more 
shaken in soul by this appeal than by the previous*revela¬ 
tions ; “ surely, when we last parted, when I confided to you 
my love for your niece, when you consented to my propo¬ 
sal to return home and obtain my father’s approval of my 
suit ; surely then was the time to say, ‘ No ; a suitor with 
claims paramount and irresistible has come before you.’ ” 

“ I did not then know. Heaven is my witness, I did not 
then even suspect, that Walter Melville ever dreamed of 
seeking a wife in the child who had grown up under his 
eyes. You must own, indeed, how much I discouraged 
your suit ; I could not discourage it more without revealing 
the secret of her birth, only to be revealed as an extreme 
necessity. But my persuasion was that your father would 
not consent to your alliance with one so far beneath the ex¬ 
pectations he was entitled to form, and the refusal of that 
consent would terminate all further acquaintance between 
you and Lily, leaving her secret undisclosed. It was not till 
you had left, only indeed two days ago, that I received from 
Walter Melville a letter, which told me what I had never 
before conjectured. Here is the letter ; read it, and then 
say if you have the heart to force yourself into rivalry with 

—with-” She broke off, choked by her exertion, thrust 

the letter into his hands, and with keen, eager, hungry stare 
watched his countenance while he read. 

“-Street, Bloomsbury, 

“My dear Friend, —Joy and triumph ! My picture is completed; 
the picture on which, for so many months, I have worked night and day in 
this den of a studio, without a glimpse of the green fields, concealing my ad¬ 
dress from every one, even from you, lest I miglit be tempted to suspend my 
labors. The picture is completed—it is sold ; guess the price ! Fifteen 
hundred guineas, and to a dealer—a dealer ! Think of that ! It is to be 
carried about the country, exhibited by itself. You remember those three 
little landscapes of mine which two years ago I would gladly have sold for ten 
pounds, only neither Lily nor you would let me. My good friend and earliest 
patron, the German merchant at Luscombe, who called on me yesterday, of- 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


44 J 


fered to cover them with guineas thrice piled over the canvas. Imagine how 
happy 1 felt when I forced him to accept them as a present. What a leap in 
a man’s life it is when he can afford to say ‘ I give !’ Now then, at last, at 
last I am in a position which justifies the utterance of the hope which has for 
eighteen years been my solace, my support ; been the sunbeam that ever shone 
through the gloom, when my fate was at the darkest; been the melody tliat 
buoyed me aloft as in the song of the skylark, when in the voices of men I 
heard but the laugh of scorn. Do you remember the night on which Lily’s 
mother besought us to bring up her child in ignorance of her parentage, not 
even communicate to unkind and disdainful relatives that such a child was 
born ? do you remember how plaintively, and yet how proudly, slie so nobly 
born, so luxuriously nurtured, clasping my hand when I ventured to remon¬ 
strate and say that her own family could not condemn her child because of her 
father’s guilt,—she, the proudest woman I ever knew, she whose smile I can 
at rare moments detect in Lily, raised her head from her pillow, and gaspeu 
forth : 

“ ‘I am dying—the last words of the dying are commands. I command 
you to see that my child’s lot is not that of a felon’s daughter transported to 
the hearth of nobles. To be happy, her lot must be humble—no roof too 
humble to shelter, no husband too humble to wed, the felon’s daughter,’ 

“ From that hour I formed the resolve that I would keep hand and heart 
free, that when the grandchild of my princely benefactor grew up into wo¬ 
manhood I might say to her, ‘ I am humbly born, but thy mother would have 
given thee to me.’ The new-born, consigned to our charge, has now ripened 
into woman, and I have now so assured my fortune that it is no longer pov¬ 
erty and struggle that I should ask her to share. I am conscious that, were 
her fate not so exceptional, this hope of mine would be a vain presumption— 
conscious that I am but the creature of her grandsire’s bounty, and that from 
it springs all I ever can be—conscious of the disparity in years—conscious of 
many a past error and present fault. But, as fate so ordains, such considera¬ 
tions are trivial; I am her rightful choice. What other choice, compatible 
with these necessities which weigh, dear and honored friend, immeasurably 
more on your sense of honor than they do upon mine, and yet mine is not 
dull ? Granting, then, that you, her nearest and most responsible relative, 
do not condemn me for presumption, all else seems to me clear. Lily’s child¬ 
like affection for me is too deep and too fond not to warm into a wife’s love. 
Happily, too, she has not been reared in the stereotyped boai'ding-school 
shallownesses of knowledge and vulgarities of gentility; but educated, like 
myself, by the free influences of nature; longing for no halls and palaces 
save those that we build as we list, in fairyland ; educated to comprehend 
and to share the fancies which are more than booklore to the worshiper of art 
and song. In a day or two, perhaps the day after you receive this, I shall be 
able to escape from London, and most likely shall come on foot as usual. 
How I long to see once more the woodbine on the hedge-rows, the green 
blades of the corn-field, the sunny lapse of the river, and, dearer still, the tiny 
falls of our own little noisy rill ! Meanwhile I entreat you, dearest, gentlest, 
most honored of such few friends as my life has hitherto won to itself, to con. 
sider well the direct purport of this letter. If you, born in a grade so much 
higher than mine, feel that it is unwarrantable insolence in me to aspire to 
the hand of my patron’s grandchild, say so plainly; and I remain not less 
grateful for your friendship, than I was to your goodness when dining for the 
first time at your father’s palace. Shy and sensitive and young, I felt that 
his grand guests wondered why I was invited to the same board as themselves 


444 


KEN ELM CHILLINGL Y. 


' ■ 


You, then courted, admired, you had sympathetic compassion on the r^W, 
sullen boy ; left those who then seemed to me like the gods and goddesses of 
a heathen Pantheon, to come and sit beside your i3Lther's-j!>roiege, and cheer* 
ingly whisper to him such words as make a low-born, ambitious lad go home 
light-hearted, saying to himself, ‘ Some day or other.’ And what it is to an 
ambitious lad, fancying himself lifted by the gods and goddesses of a Pan¬ 
theon, to go home light-hearted, muttering to himself, ‘ Some day or other,” 
I doubt if even you can divine. 

“ But should you be as kind to the presumptuous man as you were to the 
bashful boy, and say, ‘ Realized be the dream, fulfilled be the object of your 
life ! take from me, as her next of kin, the lust descendant of your bene¬ 
factor,’ then I venture to address to you tliis request. You are in the place 
of mother to your sister’s child; act for her as a keeper now, to prepare her 
mind and heart for the coming change in the relations between her and me. 
When I last saw her, six months ago, she was still so playfully infantine that 
it half seems to me I should be sinning against the reverence due to a child, 
if I said too abruptly, ‘ You are woman, and I love you not as child but as 
woman.’ And yet, time is not allowed to me for long, cautious, and gradual 
slide from the relationship of friend into that of lover. I now understand 
what the great master of my art once said to me, ‘A career is a destiny.’ 
By one of those merchant princes who now at Manchester, as they did once 
at Genoa or Venice, reign alike over those two civilizers of the world which 
to dull eyes seem antagonistic, Art and Commerce, an offer is made to me 
for a picture on a subject which strikes his fancy ; an offer so magnificently 
liberal that his commerce must command my art; and the nature of the sub¬ 
ject compels me to seek the banks of the Rhine as soon as may be. I must 
have all the hues of the foliage in the meridian glories of summer. I can but 
stay at Grasmere a very few days ; but before I leave I must know this, am I 
going to work for Lily or am I not ? On the answer to that question de¬ 
pends all. If not to Avork for her there will be no glory in the summer, no 
triumph in art to me : I refuse the offer. If she says, ‘ Yes ; it is for me you 
work,’ then she becomes my destiny. She assures my career. Here I speak 
as an artist: nobody who is not an artist can guess how sovereign over even 
his moral being, at a certain critical epoch in his career of artist or his life of 
man, is the success or the failure of a single work. But I go on to speak as 
man. My love for Lily is such for the last six months, that though if she 
rejected me I should still serve art, still yearn for fame, it would be as an old 
man might do either. The youth of my life would be gone. 

“As man I say, all my thoughts, all my dreams of happiness, distinct 
from Art and fame, are summed up in the one question—‘ Is Lily to be my 
wife or not ? ’ 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“W. M,” 


Kenelm returned the letter without a word. 

Enraged by his silence, Mrs. Cameron exclaimed : “ Now, 
sir, what say you ? You have scarcely known Lily five 
weeks. What is the feverish fancy of five weeks’ growth 
to the life-long devotion of a man like this ? Do you now 
dare to say, ‘ I persist ’ ?” 

Kenelm waved his hand very quietly, as if to dismiss all 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


445 


conception of taunt and insult, and said, with his soft mel¬ 
ancholy eyes fixed upon the working features of Lily’s aunt, 
“This man is more worthy of her than 1. He prays you, 
in his letter, to prepare your niece for that change of rela¬ 
tionship which he dreads too abruptly to break to her him¬ 
self. Have you done so ? ” 

“ I have ; the night I got the letter.” 

“And—you hesitate ; speak truthfully, I implore. And 
—she-” 

“ She,” answered Mrs. Cameron, feeling herself involun¬ 
tarily compelled to obey the voice of that prayer, “ she 
seemed stunned at first, muttering, ‘This is a dream—it can¬ 
not be true—cannot! I Lion’s wife—I—I 1 I his destiny ! 
In me his happiness!’ And then she laughed her pretty 
child’s laugh, and put her arms round my neck, and said, 
‘You are jesting, aunty. He could not write thus !' So I 
put that part of his letter under her eyes ; and when she had 
convinced herself, her face became very grave, more like a 
woman’s face than I ever saw it; and after a pause she 
cried out, passionately, ‘Can you think me—can I think 
myself—so bad, so ungrateful, as to doubt what I should 
answer, if Lion asked me whether I would willingly say or 
do anything that made him unhappy ? If there be such a 
doubt in my heart, I would tear it out by the roots, heart 
and all ! ’ Oh, Mr. Chillingly, there would be no happiness 
for her with another, knowing that she had blighted the life 
of him to whom she owes so much, though she never will 
learn how much more she owes.” Kenelm not replying to 
this remark, Mrs. Cameron resumed. “ I will be perfectly 
frank with you, Mr. Chillingly. I was not quite satisfied 
with Lily’s manner and looks the next morning, that is, yes¬ 
terday. I did fear there might be some struggle in her 
mind in which there entered a thought of yourself. And 
when Walter, on his arrival here in the evening, spoke of 
you as one he had met before in his rural excursions, but 
whose name he only learned on parting at the bridge by 
Cromwell Lodge, I saw that Lily turned pale, and shortly 
aftervrards went to her own room for the night. Fearing 
that any interview with you, though it would not alter her 
resolve, might lessen her happiness on the only choice she 
can and ought to adopt, I resolved to visit you this morning, 
and make that appeal to your reason and your heart which 
I have done now—not, I am sure, in vain. Hush ! I hear 
his voice ! ” 


446 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


Melville entered the room, Lily leaning on his arm. The 
artist’s comely face was radiant with an ineffable joyousness. 
Leaving Lily, he reached Kenelm’s side as with a single 
bound, shook him heartily by the hand, and said, ‘‘ I find 
that you have already been a welcomed visitor in this house. 
Long may you be so, so say I, so (I answer for her) says my 
fair betrothed, to whom I need not present you.” 

Lily advanced, and held out her hand very timidly 
Kenelm touched rather than clasped it. His own strong 
hand trembled like a leaf. He ventured but one glance at 
her face. All the bloom had died out of it, but the expres¬ 
sion seemed to him wondrously, cruelly tranquil. 

“Your betrothed—your future bride!” he said to the 
artist, with a mastery over his emotion rendered less difficult 
by the single glance at that tranquil face. “ I wish you joy. 
All happiness to you, Miss Mordaunt. You have made a 
noble^ choice.” 

He looked round for his hat ; it lay at his feet, but he did 
not see it; his eyes wandering away with uncertain vision, 
like those of a sleep-walker. 

Mrs. Cameron picked up the hat and gave it to him. 

“ Thank you,” he said, meekly ; then with a smile half 
sweet, half bitter, “ I have so much to thank you for, Mrs. 
Cameron.” 

“ But you are not going already—just as I enter, too. 
Hold ! Mrs. Cameron tells me you are lodging with my old 
friend Jones. Come and stop a couple of days with us : we 
can find you a room ; the room over your butterfly cage, eh. 
Fairy ? ” 

“Thank you, too. Thank you all. No; I must be in 
London by the first train.” 

Speaking thus, he had found his way to the door, bowed 
with the quiet grace that characterized all his movements, 
and was gone. 

“ Pardon his abruptness, Lily ; he too loves ; he too is im¬ 
patient to find a betrothed,” said the artist, gayly ; “ but now 
he knows my dearest secret, I think I have a right to know 
his; and I will try.” 

He had scarcely uttered the words before he too had quit¬ 
ted the room and overtaken Kenelm just at the threshold. 

“ If you are going back to Cromwell Lodge—to pack up, 
I suppose—let me walk with you as far as the bridge.” 

Kenelm inclined his head assentingly and tacitly as they 
passed through the garden gate, winding backward through 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


447 


the lane which skirted the garden pales ; when, at the very 
spot in which the day after their first and only quarrel Lily’s 
face had been seen brightening through the evergreens, that 
day on which the old wom^n, quitting her, said, “ God bless 
you ! ” and on which the vicar, walking with Kenelm, spoke 
of her fairy charms ; well, just in that spot Lily’s face ap¬ 
peared again, not this time brightening through the ever¬ 
greens, unless the palest gleam of the palest moon can be 
said to brighten. Kenelm saw, started, halted. His com¬ 
panion, then in the rush of a gladsome talk of which Kenelm 
had not heard a word, neither saw nor halted ; he walked on 
mechanically, gladsome and talking. 

Lily stretched forth her hand through the evergreens. 
Kenelm took it reverentially. This time it was not his hand 
that trembled. 

“ Good-bye,” she said in a whisper, “ good-bye forever in 
this world. You understand—you do understand me. Say 
that you do.” 

“ I understand. Noble child—noble choice. God bless 
you ! God comfort me ! ” murmured Kenelm. Their eyes 
met. Oh, the sadness, and, alas ! oh, the love, in the eyes 
of both ! 

Kenelm passed on. 

All said in an instant. How many Alls are said in an in¬ 
stant ! Melville was in the midst of some glowing sentence, 
begun when Kenelm dropped from his side, and the end of 
the sentence was this : 

“ Words cannot say how fair seems life, how easy seems 
conquest of fame, dating from this day—this day ”—and in 
his turn he halted, looked round on the sunlit landscape and 
breathed deep, as if to drink into his soul all of the earth’s 
joy and beauty which his gaze could compass and the arch 
of the horizon bound. 

“ They who knew her even the best,” resumed the artist, 
striding on, “even her aunt, never could guess how serious 
and earnest, under all her infantine prettiness of fancy, is that 
girl’s real nature. We were walking along the brook-side, 
when I began to tell her how solitary the world would be to 
me if I could not win her to my side ; while I spoke she had 
turned aside from the path we had taken, and it was not till 
we were under the shadow of the.church in which we shall 
be married that she uttered the words that give to every cloud 
in my fate the silver lining ; implying thus how solemnly 


448 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


connected in her mind was the thought of love with the 
sanctity of religion.” 

Kenelm shuddered—the church—the burial-ground—the 
old gothic tomb—the flowers round the infant’s grave ! 

But I am talking a great deal too much about myself,” 
resumed the artist. “ Lovers are the most consummate of 
all egotists, and the most garrulous of all gossips. You have 
wished me joy on my destined nuptials, when shall I wish 
you joy on yours ? Since we have begun to confide in each 
other, you aro in my debt as to a confidence.” 

They had now gained the bridge. Kenelm turned round 
abruptly : “ Good-day ; let us part here. I have nothing to 
confide to you that might not seem to your ears a mockery 
when I wish you joy.” So saying, so obeying in spite of 
himself the anguish of his heart, Kenelm wrung his com¬ 
panion’s hand with the force of an uncontrollable agony, and 
speeded over the bridge before Melville recovered his sur¬ 
prise. 

The artist would have small claim to the essential attri¬ 
bute of genius, viz., the intuitive sympathy of passion wdth 
passion, if that secret of Kenelm’s which he had so lightly 
said “ he had acquired the right to learn ” was not revealed 
to him as by an electric flash. “ Poor fellow* ! ” he said to 
himself, pityingly ; ‘‘ how natural that he should fall in love 
with Fairy ! but happily he is so young, and such a philoso¬ 
pher, that it is but one of those trials through w*hich, at least 
ten times a year, I have gone with wounds that leave not a 
scar.” 

Thus soliloquizing, the warm-blooded w^orshipper of Na¬ 
ture returned homeward, too blest in the triumph of his ow» 
love to feel more than a kindly compassion for the w ounded 
heart, consigned with no doubt of the healing result to the 
fickleness of youth and the consolations of philosophy. Not 
for a moment did the happier rival suspect that Kenelm’s 
love was returned ; that an atom in the heart of the girl who 
had promised to be his bride could take its light or shadow 
from any love but his own. Yet, more from delicacy of re¬ 
spect to the rival so suddenly self-betrayed, than from any 
more prudential motive, he did not speak even to Mrs. Cam¬ 
eron of Kenelm’s secret and sorrow ; and certainly neither 
she nor Lily w*as disposed to ask any question that concerned 
the departed visitor. 

In fact, the name of Kenelm Chillingly w^as scarcely, if at 
all, mentioned in that household during the few days w^hick 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


449 


elapsed before Walter Melville quitted Grasmere for the 
banks of the Rhine, not to return till the autumn, when his 
marriage with Lily was to take place. During those days 
Lily was calm and seemingly cheerful—her manner towards 
her betrothed, if more subdued, not less affectionate than of 
old. Mrs. Cameron congratulated herself on having so suc¬ 
cessfully got rid of Kenelm Chillingly. 


CHAPTER VIII. ' 

So, then, but for that officious warning, uttered under the 
balcony at Luscombe, Kenelm Chillingly might never have 
had a rival in Walter Melville. But ill would any reader 
construe the character of Kenelm, did he think that such a 
thought increased the bitterness of his sorrow. No sorrow 
in the thought that a noble nature had been saved from the 
temptation to a great sin. 

The good man does good merely by living. And the 
good he does may often mar the plans he formed for his 
own happiness. But he cannot regret that Heaven has per¬ 
mitted him to do good. 

What Kenelm did feel is perhaps best explained in the 
letter to Sir Peter, which is here subioined : 

“My dearest Father,, -Never till my dying day shall I forget that 
tender desire for my happiness with which, overcoming all worldly considera¬ 
tions, no matter at what disappointment to your own cherished plans or am¬ 
bition for the heir to your name and race, you sent me away from your roof, 
these words ringing in my ear like the sound of joy-bells, ‘Choose as you will, 
with my blessing on your choice. I open my heart to admit another child— 
your wife shall be my daughter.’ It is such an unspeakable comfort to me to 
recall those words now. Of all human affections gratitude is surely the holiest; 
and it blends itself with the sweetness of religion when it is gratitude to a 
father. And, therefore, do not grieve too much for me, when I tell you that 
the hopes which enchanted me when we parted are not to be fulfilled. Her 
hand is pledged to another—another with claims upon her preference to which 
mine cannot be compared ; and he is himself, putting aside the accidents of 
birth and fortune, immeasurably my superior. In that thought—I mean the 
thought that the man she selects deserves her more than I do, and that in his 
happiness she will blend her own—I shall find comfort, so soon as I can fairly 
reason down the first all-engrossing selfishness that follows the sense of unexr 
pected and irremediable loss. Meanwhile you will think it not unnatural that 
I resort to such aids for change of heart as are afforded by change of scene. 

I start for the Continent to-night, and shall not rest till I reach Venice, whigh 



450 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


I have not yet seen. I feel irresistibly attracted towards still canals and glid 
ing gondolas. I will write to you and to my dear mother the day I arrive. 
And I trust to write cheerfully, with full accounts of all I see and encounter. 
Do not, dearest father, in your letters to me revert or allude to that grief, 
which even the tenderest word from your own tender self might but chafe into 
pain more sensitive. After all, a disappointed love is a very common lot. And 
we meet every day men—ay, and women too—who have known it, and are 
thoroughly cured. 

“The manliest of our modern lyrical poets has said very nobly and, no 
doubt, very justly, 

‘ To bear is to conquer our fate.’ 

“ Ever your loving son, 

“K. C.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Nearly a year and a half has elapsed since the date of 
my last chapter. Two Englishmen were—the one seated, 
the other reclined at length—on one of the mounds that 
furrow the ascent of Posilippo. Before them spread the 
noiseless sea, basking in the sunshine, without visible ripple ; 
to the left there was a distant glimpse through gaps of brush¬ 
wood of the public gardens and white water of the Chiaja. 
They were friends who had chanced to meet abroad,—unex¬ 
pectedly,—joined company, and travelled together for many 
months, chiefly in the East. They had been but a few days 
in Naples. The elder of the two had important affairs in 
England which ought to have summoned him back long 
since. But he did not let his friend know this ; his affairs 
seemed to him less important than the duties he owed to one 
for whom he entertained that deep and noble love which is 
something stronger than brotherly, for with brotherly affec¬ 
tion it combines gratitude and reverence. He knew, too, 
that his friend was oppressed by a haunting sorrow, of which 
the cause was divined by one, not revealed by the other. 

To leave him, so beloved, alone with that sorrow in 
strange lands, was a thought not to be cherished by a friend 
so tender ; for in the friendship of this man there was that 
sort of tenderness which completes a nature thoroughly man¬ 
like, by giving it a touch of the woman’s. 

It was a day which in our northern climates is that of 
winter ; in the southern clime of Naples it was mild as an 
English summer day lingering on the brink of autumn. The 
sun was sloping towards the west, and already gathering 



KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


451 


around it roseate and purple fleeces. Elsewhere, the deep* 
blue sky was without a cloudlet. 

Both had been for some minutes silent; at length the 
man reclined on the grass—it was the younger man—said 
suddenly, and with no previous hint of the subject intro- 
duced, “Lay your hand on your heart, Tom, and answer me 
truly. Are your thoughts as clear from regrets as the hea¬ 
vens above us are from a cloud ? Man takes regret from 
tears that have ceased to flow, as the heaven takes cloud from 
the rains that have ceased to fall.” 

“ Regrets ? Ah, I understand, for the loss of the girl I 
once loved to distraction ! No ; surely I made that clear to 
you many, many, many months ago, when I was your guest 
at Moleswich.” 

“ Ay, but I have never, since then, spoken to you on that 
subject. I did not dare. It seems to me so natural that a 
man, in the earlier struggle between love and reason, should 
say, ‘reason shall conquer, and has conquered ;’ and yet— 
and yet—as time glides on, feel that the conquerors who can¬ 
not put down rebellion have a very uneasy reign. Answer 
me not as at Moleswich, during the first struggle, but now, 
in the after-day, when reaction from struggle comes.” 

“ Upon my honor,” answered the friend, “ I have had no 
reaction at all. I was cured entirely when I had once seen 
Jessie again, another man’s wife, mother to his child, happy 
in her marriage, and—whether she was changed or not—very 
different from the sort of wife I should like to marry, now 
that I am no longer a village farrier.” 

“And, I remember, you spoke of some other girl whom 
U would suit you to marry. You have been long abroad, 
from her. Do you ever think of her—think of her still as 
your future wife ? Can you love her ? Can you, who have 
once loved so faithfully, love again ?” 

“ I am sure of that. I love Emily better than I did when 
I left England. We correspond. She writes such nice let¬ 
ters.” Tom hesitated, blushed, and continued timidly, “ I 
should like to show you one of her letters.” 

“Do.” 

Tom drew-forth the last of such letters from his breast¬ 
pocket. 

Kenelm raised himself from the grass, took the letter, and 
read slowly, carefully, while Tom watched in vain for some 
approving smile to brighten up the dark beauty of that meb 
?incholy face< 


452 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


Certainly it was the letter a man in love might show with 
pride to a friend ; the letter of a lady, well educated, well 
brought up, evincing aifection modestly, intelligence mod* 
estly too ; the sort of a letter in which a mother who loved 
her daughter, and approved the daughter’s choice, could not 
have suggested a correction. 

As Kenelm gave back the letter, his eyes met his friend’s. 
Those were eager eyes—eyes hungering for praise. Kenelm’s 
heart smote him for that worst of sins in friendship—want of 
sympathy ; and that uneasy heart forced to his lips congrat¬ 
ulations, not perhaps quite sincere, but which amply satisfied 
the lover. In uttering them, Kenelm rose to his feet, threw 
his arm round his friend’s shoulder, and said, “ Are you not 
tired of this place, Tom ? I am. Let us go back to England 
to-morrow.” Tom’s honest face brightened vividly. “ How 
selfish and egotistical I have been !” continued Kenelm ; “ I 
ought to have thought more of you, your career, your mar¬ 
riage—pardon me ” 

“ Pardon you—pardon ! Don’t I owe to you all—owe to 
you Emily herself ? If you had never come to Graveleigh, 
never said, ‘ Be my friend,’ what should I have been now ? 
what—what ? ” 

The next day the two friends quitted Naples, en route for 
England, not exchanging many words by the way. The old 
loquacious crotchety humor of Kenelm had deserted him. A 
duller companion than he was you could not have conceived. 
He might have been the hero of a young lady’s novel. 

It was only when they parted in London that Kenelm 
evinced more secret purpose, more external emotion than 
one of his heraldic Daces shifting from the bed to the sur¬ 
face of a waveless pond. 

‘‘ If I have rightly understood you, Tom, all this change in 
you, all this cure of torturing regret, was wrought—wrought 
lastingly—wrought so as to leave you heart-free for the world’s 
actions and a home’s peace, on that eve when you saw her 
whose face till then had haunted you, another man’s happy 
wife, and, in so seeing her, either her face was changed, or 
your heart became so.” 

“ Quite true. I might express it otherwise, but the fact 
remains the same.” 

“ God bless you, Tom ; bless you in your career without, 
in your home within,” said Kenelm, wringing his friend’s 
hand at the door of the carriage that was to whirl to love, 
and wealth, and station, tlio wh’lon bully of a village, along 



ICENE7.M CmrjJETGlV. 


455 


the iron groove of that contrivance which, though now the 
tritest of prosaic realities, seemed once too poetical for a 
poet’s wildest visions. 


CHAPTER X. 

A winter’s evening at Moleswich. Very different from 
a winter sunset at Naples. It is intensely cold. There has 
been a slight fall of snow, accompanied with severe, bright, 
clear frost, a thin sprinkling of white on the pavements. 
Kenelm Chillingly entered the town on foot, no longer a 
knapsack on his back. Passing through the main street, he 
paused a moment at the door of Will Somers. The shop 
was closed. No, he would not stay there to ask in a round¬ 
about way for news. He would go in straightforwardly and 
manfully to Grasmere. He would take the inmates there by 
surprise. The sooner he could bring Tom’s experience home 
to himself, the better. He had schooled his heart to rely on 
that experience, and it brought him back the old elasticity of 
his stride. In his lofty carriage and buoyant face was again 
visible the old haughtiness of the indifferentism that keeps 
itself aloof from the turbulent emotions and conventional 
frivolities of those whom its philosophy pities and scorns. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” laughed he who, like Swift, never laughed' 
aloud, and often laughed inaudibly. “ Ha ! ha ! I shall exor¬ 
cise the ghost of my grief. I shall never be haunted again. 
If that stormy creature whom love might have maddened 
into crime,—if he were cured of love at once by a single visit 
to the home of her whose face was changed to him—for the 
smiles and the tears of it had become the property of another 
man—how much more should I be left without a scar ! I, 
the heir of the Chillinglys ! I, the kinsman of a Mivers ! I, 
the pupil of a Welby ! I—I, Kenelm Chillingly, to be thus 

—thus-” Here, in the midst of his boastful soliloquy, 

the well-remembered brook rushed suddenly upon eye and 
ear, gleaming and moaning under the wintry moon. Kenelm 
Chillingly stopped, covered his face with his hands, and burst 
into a passion of tears. 

Recovering himself slowly, he went on along the path, 
every step of which was haunted by the form of Lily. 

He reached the garden-gate of Grasmere, lifted the lately 




454 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


and entered. As he did so, a man, touching his hat, rushed 
beside, and advanced before him—the village postman. 
Kenelm drew back allowing the man to pass to the door, and 
as he thus drew back he caught a side view of lighted win¬ 
dows looking on the lawn—the windows of the pleasant 
drawing-room in which he had first heard Lily speak of her 
guardian. 

The postman left his letters, and regained the garden gate, 
while Kenelm stood still wistfully gazing on those lighted 
windows. He had, meanwhile, advanced along the whitened 
sward to the light, saying to himself, “ Let me just see her 
and her happiness, and then I will knock boldly at the door 
and say, ‘Good-evening, Mrs. Melville.’ ” 

So Kenelm stole across the lawn, and, stationing himself 
at the angle of the wall, looked into the window. 

Melville, in dressing-robe and slippers, was seated alone 
by the fireside. His dog was lazily stretched on the hearth¬ 
rug. One by one the features of the room, as the scene of 
his vanished happiness, grew out from its stillness ; the del¬ 
icately-tinted walls ; the dwarf bookcase, with its feminine 
ornaments on the upper shelf; the piano standing in the 
same place. Lily’s own small low chair ; that was not in its 
old place, but thrust into a remote angle, as if it had passed 
into disuse. Melville was reading a letter, no doubt one of 
those which the postman had left. Surely the contents were 
pleasant, for his fair face, always frankly expressive of emo¬ 
tion, brightened wonderfully as he read on. Then he rose 
with a quick, brisk movement, and pulled the bell hastily. 

A neat maid-servant entered—a strange face to Kenelm. 
Melville gave her some brief message. “ He has had joyous 
news,” thought Kenelm. “ He has sent for his wife, that 
she may share his joy.” Presently the door opened, and 
entered, not Lily, but Mrs. Cameron. 

She looked changed ; her natural quietude of mien and 
movement the same, indeed, but with more languor in it. 
Her hair had become gray. Melville was standing by the 
table as she approached him. He put the letter into her 
hands with a gay, proud smile, and looked over her shoulder 
while she read it, pointing with his finger as to some lines 
that should more emphatically claim her attention. 

When she had finished, her face reflected his smile. They 
exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, as if in congratulation. 
“ Ah,” thought Kenelm, “ the letter is from Lily. She is 
abroad. Perhaps the birth of a first-born.” 


kEMELM CHILLWgLV. 


4S5 

Just then Blanche, who had not been visible before, 
emerged from under the table, and, as Melville re-seated him¬ 
self by the fireside, sprang into his lap, rubbing herself 
against his breast. The expression of his face changed; he 
uttered some low exclamation. Mrs. Cameron took the 
creature from his lap, stroking it quietly, carried it across 
the room, and put it outside the door. Then she seated her¬ 
self beside the artist, placing her hand in his, and they con¬ 
versed in low tones, till Melville’s face again grew bright, 
and again he took up the letter. 

A few minutes later the maid-servant entered with the tea 
things, and, after arranging them on the table, approached 
the window. Kenelm retreated into the shade, the servant 
closed the shutters and drew the curtains—that scene of quiet 
home comfort vanished from the eyes of the looker-on. 

Kenelm felt strangely perplexed. What had become of 
Lily ? was she indeed absent from her home ? Had he con¬ 
jectured rightly, that the letter which had evidently so glad¬ 
dened Melville was from her, or was it possible—here a 
thought of joy seized his heart and held him breathless—was 
it possible that, after all, she had not married her guardian ; 
had found a home elsewhere—was free ? He moved on 
farther down the lawn, towards the water, that he might 
better bring before his sight that part of the irregular build¬ 
ing in which Lily formerly had her sleeping-chamber and 
her “own—own room.” All was dark there; the shutters 
inexorably closed. The place with which the childlike girl 
had asssociated her most childlike fancies, taming and tend¬ 
ing the honey-drinkers destined to pass into fairies, that 
fragile tenement was not closed against the winds and snows ; 
its doors were drearily open ; gaps in the delicate wire-work ; 
of its dainty draperies a few tattered shreds hanging here 
and there ; and on the depopulated floor the moonbeams rest 
ing cold and ghostly. No spray from the tiny fountain ; its 
basin chipped and mouldering; the scanty waters therein 
frozen. Of all the pretty wild ones that Lily fancied she 
could tame, not one. Ah ! yes, there was one, probably not 
of the old familiar number ; a stranger that might have crept 
in for shelter from the first blasts of winter, and now clung 
to an angle in the farther wall, its wings folded—asleep, not 
dead. But Kenelm saw it not; he noticed only the general 
desolation of the spot. 

“ Natural enough,” thought he. “ She has outgrown all 
such pretty silliness. A wife cannot remain a child. Still, 


KEt^KLM cmLLlMCLY, 


45-5 

if she had belonged to me. . . The thought choked 

even his inward, unspoken Utterance. He turned away, 
paused a moment under the leafless boughs of the great 
willow still dipping into the brook, and then with impatient 
Steps strode back towards the garden gate. 

“ No—no—no. I catinot now enter that house and ask 
for Mrs* Melville. Trial enough for one night to stand on 
the old ground. I will return to the town. I will call at 
Jessie’s, and there I can learn if she indeed be happy.” 

So he went on by the path along the brook-side, the 
night momently colder and colder and momently clearer 
and clearer, while the moon noiselessly glided into loftier 
heights* Wrapt in his abstracted thoughts, when he came 
to the Spot in which the path split in twain he did not take 
that which led more directly to the town. His steps, natur¬ 
ally enough following the train of his thoughts, led him 
along the path with which the object of his thoughts was 
associated. He found himself on the burial-ground, and in 
front of the old ruined tomb with the effaced inscription. 

“ Ah ! child—child ! ” he murmured almost audibly, 
“ what depths of woman tenderness lay concealed in thee ! 
In what loving sympathy with the past—sympathy only 
vouchsafed to the tenderest women and the highest poets— 
didst thou lay thy flowers on the tomb to which thou didst 
give a poet’s history interpreted by a woman’s heart, little 
dreaming that beneath the stone slept a hero of thine own 
fallen race.” 

He passed beneath the shadow of the yews, whose 
leaves no winter wind can strew, and paused at the ruined 
tomb—no flower now on its stone, only a sprinkling of snow 
at the foot of it—sprinklings of snow at the foot of each 
humbler grave-mound. Motionless in the frosty air rested 
the pointed church spire, and through the frosty air, higher 
and higher up the arch of heaven, soared the unpausing 
moon. Around, and below, and above her, the stars which 
no science can number ; yet not less difficult to number are 
the thoughts, desires, aspirations, which, in a space of time 
briefer than a winter’s night, can pass through the infinite 
deeps of a human soul. 

From his standby the gothic tomb, Kenelm looked along 
the churchyard for the infant’s grave, which Lily’s pious 
care had bordered with votive flowers. 'Yes, in that direction 
there was still a gleam of color; could it be of flowers in 
that biting winter-time ?—the moon is so deceptive, it silvers 


K:E^^ELM CffriLlNGLY. 


4S7 


Into the hue of the jessamines the green of the everlast 
ings. 

He passed towards the white grave^mound. His sight 
had duped him ; no pale flowerj no green “ everlasting,” on 
its neglected border—only brown mould, withered stalks, 
streaks of snow. 

“And yet,” he said, sadly, “she told me she had never 
broken a promise ; and she had given a promise to the dying 
child. Ah ! she is too happy now to think of the dead.” 

So murmuring, he was about to turn towards the town, 
when close by that child’s grave he saw another. Round 
that other there were pale “everlastings,” dwarfed blossoms 
of the laurestinus ; at the four angles the drooping bud of a 
Christmas rose ; at the head of the grave was a white stone, 
its sharp edges cutting into the star-lit air ; and on the head, 
in fresh letters, were inscribed these words : 


To the Memory of 
L. M., 

Aged 17, 

Died October 29, a.d. 18—. 

This stone, above the grave to which her mortal 
remains are consigned, beside that of an infant not 
more sinless, is consecrated by those who 
most mourn and miss her. 

Isabel Cameron, 

Walter Melville. 

** Suffer little children to come unto me.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

The next morning Mr. Emlyn, passing from his garden 
to the town of Moleswich, descried a human form stretched 
on the burial-ground, stirring restlessly but very slightly, as 
if with an involuntary shiver, and uttering broken sounds, 
very faintly heard, like the moans that a man in pain strives 
to suppress and cannot. 

The rector hastened to the spot. The man was lying, his 
face downward, on a grave-mound, not dead, not asleep. 

“Poor fellow ! overtaken by drink, I fear,” thought the 
gentle pastor ; and as it was the habit of his mind to com¬ 
passionate error even more than grief, he accosted the sup* 
20 





ICEHElM CHILLmcLV. 


posed sinner in very soothing tones—trying to raise him 
from the ground—and with very kipdly words, 

Then the man lifted his face from its pillow on the grave- 
mound, looked round him dreamily into the gray, blank air 
of the cheerless morn, and rose to his feet quietly and 
slowly. 

The vicar was startled ; he recognized the face of him he 
had last seen in the magnificent affluence of health and 
strength. But the character of the face was changed—so 
changed ! its old serenity of expression, at once grave and 
sweet, succeeded by a wild trouble in the heavy eyelids and 
trembling lips. 

“ Mr. Chillingly—you ! Is it possible ? ” 

Varus, Varus,” exclaimed Kenelm, passionately, “ what 
hast thou done with my legions ?” 

At that quotation of the well-known greeting of Augus¬ 
tus to his unfortunate general, the scholar recoiled. Had 
his young friend’s mind deserted him—dazed, perhaps, by 
over-study ? 

He was soon reassured ; Kenelm’s face settled back into 
calm, though a dreary calm, like that of the wintry day. 

“ I beg pardon, Mr. Emlyn ; I had not quite shaken 
off the hold of a strange dream. I dreamed that I was 
worse off than Augustus ; he did not lose the world when 
the legions he had trusted to another vanished into a 
grave. ” 

Here Kenelm linked his arm in that of the rector—on 
which he leaned rather heavily—and drew him on from the 
burial-ground into the open space where the two paths met. 

“ But how long have you returned to Moleswich ? ” 
asked Emlyn ; “ and how come you to choose so damp a 
bed for your morning slumbers ?” 

“ The wintry cold crept into my veins when I stood in 
the burial-ground, and I was very weary ; I had no sleep 
at night. Do not let me take you out of your way ; I am 
going on to Grasmere. So I see, by the record on a grave¬ 
stone, that it is more than a year ago since Mr. Melville lost 
his wife.” 

“Wife ? He never married.” 

“What !” cried Kenelm. “Whose, then, is that grave¬ 
stone—* L. M.’ ?” 

Alas ! it is our poor Lily’s.” 

“ And she died unmarried ?” 

As Kenelm said this he looked up, and the sun broke 


KEMELM CniLLINGLV, 


45§ 


out from the gloomy haze of the morning. “ I may claim 
thee, then,” he thought within himself—“claim thee as 
mine when we meet again.” 

“ Unmarried—yes,” resumed the vicar. “She was in¬ 
deed betrothed to her guardian ; they were to have been 
married in the autumn, on his return from the Rhine. He 
went there to paint on the spot itself his great picture, 
which is now so famous—‘ Roland, the Hermit Knight, 
looking towards the convent lattice for a sight of the Holy 
Nun.’ Melville had scarcely gone before the symptoms of 
th© disease which proved fatal to poor Lily betrayed them¬ 
selves ; they baffled all medical skill—rapid decline. She 
was always very delicate, but no one detected in her the 
seeds of consumption. Melville only returned a day or two 
before her death. Dear childlike Lily ! how we all mourned 
for her!—not least the poor, who believed in her fairy 
charms.” 

“ And least of all, it appears, the man she was to have 
married.” 

“ He ?—Melville ? How can you wrong him so ? His 
grief was intense—overpowering—for the time.” 

“For the time! what time?” muttered Kenelm, in 
tones too low for the pastor’s ear. 

They moved on silently. Mr. Emlyn resumed : 

“ You noticed the text on Lily’s grave-stone—‘Suffer the 
little children to come unto me’ ? She dictated it herself 
the day before she died. I was with her then, so I was at 
the last,” 

“Were you—were you—at the last—the last? Good- 
day, Mr. Emlyn ; we are just in sight of the garden gate. 
And—excuse me—I wish to see Mr. Melville alone.” 

“ Well, then, good-day ; but if you are making any staj 
in the neighborhood, will you not be our guest ? We have 
a room at your service.” 

“ I thank you gratefully ! but I return to London in an 
hour or so. Hold, a moment. You were with her at the 
last ? She was resigned to die ? ” 

“ Resigned ! that is scarcely the word. The smile left 
upon her lips was not that of human resignation ; it was the 
smile of a divine joy.” 


46 o 


KEMELM CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Melville is at home, in his studio." 

Kenelm followed the maid across the hall into a room 
not built at the date of Kenelm’s former visits to the house ; 
the artist, making Grasmere his chief residence after Lily’s 
death, had added it at the back of the neglected place where¬ 
in Lily had encaged “the souls of infants unbaptized.” 

A lofty room, with a casement, partially darkened, to the 
bleak north ; various sketches on the walls ; gaunt speci¬ 
mens of antique furniture, and of gorgeous Italian silks, 
scattered about in confused disorder ; one large picture on 
its easel curtained ; another as large, and half finished, before 
which stood the painter. He turned quickly as Kenelm en¬ 
tered the room unannounced, let fall brush and palette, 
came up to him eagerly, grasped his hand, drooped his head 
on Kenelm’s shoulder, and said, in a voice struggling with 
evident and strong emotion: 

“ Since we parted, such grief ! such a loss !” 

“I know it; I have seen her grave. Let us not speak 
of it. Why so needlessly revive your sorrow ? So—so— 
your sanguine hopes are fulfilled—the world at last has done 
you justice ? Emlyn tells me that you have painted a very 
famous picture.” 

Kenelm had seated himself as he thus spoke. The paint¬ 
er still stood with dejected attitude on the middle of the 
floor, and brushed his hand over his moistened eyes once or 
twice before he answered, “Yes : wait a moment, don’t talk 
of fame yet. Bear with me : the sudden sight of you un*= 
nerved me.” 

The artist here seated himself also on an old worm-eaten 
gothic chest, rumpling and chafing the golden or tinselled 
threads of the embroidered silk, so rare and so time-worn, 
flung over the gothic chest, so rare also, and so worm-eaten. 

Kenelm looked through half-closed lips at the artist, and 
his lips, before slightly curved with a secret scorn, became 
gravely compressed. In Melville’s struggle to conceal emo¬ 
tion the strong man recognized a strong man—recognized, 
and yet only wondered ; wondered how such a man, to whom 
Lily had pledged her hand, could so soon after the loss of 


KEN ELM CHILLINGLY, 461 

Lily go on painting pictures, and care for any praise be¬ 
stowed on a yard of canvas. 

In a very few minutes Melville recommenced conversa¬ 
tion—no more reference to Lily than if she had never ex¬ 
isted. “ Yes, my last picture has been indeed a success, a 
reward complete, if tardy, for all the bitterness of former 
strugjgles made in vain, for the galling sense of injustice, the 
inguish of which only an artist knows, when unworthy 
rivals are ranked before him. 

‘ Foes quick to blame, and friends afraid to praise.’ 

True, that I have still much to encounter, the cliques still 
seek to disparage me, but between me and the cliques there 
stands at last the giant form of the public, and at last critics 
of graver weight than the cliques have deigned to accord to 
me a higher rank than even the public yet acknowledge. 
Ah ! Mr. Chillingly, you do not profess to be a judge of 
paintings, but, excuse me, just look at this letter. I received 
it only last night from the greatest connoisseur of my art, 
certainly in England, perhaps in Europe.” Elere Melville 
drew, from the side pocket of his picturesque vioyen age sur- 
tout, a letter signed by a name authoritative to all who—be¬ 
ing painters themselves—acknowledge authority in one who 
could no more paint a picture himself than Addison, the 
ablest critic of the greatest poem modern Europe has pro¬ 
duced, could have written ten lines of the Paradise Lost— 
and thrust the letter into Kenelm’s hand. Kenelm read it 
listlessly, with an increased contempt for an artist who 
could so find in gratified vanity consolation for the life gone 
from earth. But, listlessly as he read the letter, the sincere 
and fervent enthusiasm of the laudatory contents impressed 
him, and the pre-eminent authority of the signature could 
not be denied. 

The letter was written on the occasion of Melville’s re¬ 
cent election to the dignity of R.A., successor to a very great 
artist whose death had created a vacancy in the Academy. 
He returned the letter to Melville, saying, “ This is the let¬ 
ter I saw you reading last night as I looked in at your win¬ 
dow. Indeed, for a man who cares for the opinion of other 
men, this letter is very flattering ; and for the painter who 
cares for money, it must be very pleasant to know by how 
many guineas every inch of his canvas may be covered.’* 
Unable longer to control his passions of rage, of scorn, of 
agoni^mg grief, Kenelm then burst forth, ‘‘Man, Man, whom 


4<52 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


I once accepted as a teacher on human life, a teacher to 
warm, to brighten, to exalt mine own indifferent, dreamy, 
slow-pulsed self! has not the one woman whom thou didst 
select out of this over-crowded world to be bone of thy bone, 
flesh of thy flesh, vanished evermore from the earth—little 
more than a year since her voice was silenced, her heart 
ceased to beat ? But how slight is such loss to thy life, 
compared to the worth of a compliment that flatters thy 
vanity! ” 

The artist rose to his feet with an indignant impulse. 
But the angry flush faded from his cheek as he looked on 
the countenance of his rebuker. He walked up to him, and 
attempted to take his hand, but Kenelm snatched it scorn¬ 
fully from his grasp. 

“ Poor friend,” said Melville, sadly and soothingly, “ I 
did not think you loved her thus deeply. Pardon me.” He 
drew a chair close to Kenelm’s, and after a brief pause went 
on thus, in very earnest tones : I am not so heartless, not 
so forgetful of my loss, as you suppose. But reflect, you 
have but just learned of her death, you are under the first 
shock of grief. More than a year has been given to me for 
gradual submission to the decree of Heaven. Now listen to 
me, and try to listen calmly. I am many years older than 
you, I ought to know better the conditions on which man 
holds the tenure of life. Life is composite, many-sided, 
nature does not permit it to be lastingly monopolized by a 
single passion, or, while yet in the prime of its strength, to 
be lastingly blighted by a single sorrow. Survey the great 
mass of our common race, engaged in the various callings, 
some the humblest, some the loftiest, by which the business 
of the world is carried on,—can you justly despise as heart¬ 
less the poor trader, or the great statesman, when, it may be 
but a few days after the loss of some one nearest and dear 
est to his heart, the trader re-opens his shop, the statesman 
reappears in his office ? But in me, the votary of art, in me 
you behold but the weakness of gratified vanity—if I feel 
joy in the hope that my art may triumph, and my country 
may add my name to the list of those who contribute to her 
renown—where and when ever lived an artist not sustained 
by that hope, in privation, in sickness, in the sorrows he must 
share with his kind ? Nor is this hope that of a feminine 
vanity, a sicklier craving for applause : it identifies itself 
with glorious services to our land, to our race, to the chil- 
dren of all after-time. Our art cannot triumph, our name 


KENELM CHI LUNG L K 


463 


cannot live, unless we achieve a something that tends to 
beautify or ennoble the world in which we accept the com¬ 
mon heritage of toil and of sorrow, in order, therefrom, to 
work out for successive multitudes a recreation and a joy.” 

While the artist thus spoke, Kenelm lifted towards his 
face eyes charged with suppressed tears. And the face, 
kindling as the artist vindicated himself from the young 
man’s bitter charge, became touchingly sweet in its grave 
expression at the close of the not ignoble defence. 

“Enough,” said Kenelm, rising. “There is a ring of 
truth in what you say. I can conceive the artist’s, the poet’s, 
escape from this world when all therein is death and winter, 
into the world he creates and colors at his will with the hues 
of summer. So, too, I can conceive how the man whose life 
is sternly fitted into the grooves of a trader’s calling, or a 
statesman’s duties, is borne on by the force of custom afar 
from such brief halting-spot as a grave. But I am no poet, 
no artist, no trader, no statesman ; I have no calling, my life 
is fixed into no grooves. Adieu.” 

“ Hold a moment. Not now, but somewhat later, ask 
yourself whether any life can be permitted to wander in 
space, a monad detached from the lives of others. Into 
some groove or other, sooner or later, it must settle, and be 
borne on obedient to the laws of nature and the responsibil¬ 
ity to God.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Kenelm went back alone, and with downcast looks, 
through the desolate flowerless garden, when at the other 
side of the gate a light touch was laid on his arm. He look¬ 
ed up, and recognized Mrs. Cameron. 

“ I saw you,” she said, “ from my window coming to the 
house, and I have been waiting for you here. I wished to 
speak to you alone. Allow me to walk beside you.” 

Kenelm inclined his head assentingly, but made no an¬ 
swer. 

They were nearly midway between the cottage and the 
burial-ground when Mrs Cameron resumed, her tones quick 
and agitated contrasting her habitual languid quietude : 

“ I have a great weight on my mind ; it ought not to be 
remorse, I acted as I thought in my conscience for the 



464 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


best. But oh, Mr. Chillingly, if I erred—if I judged wrongly, 
do say you at least forgive me.” She seized his hand, press¬ 
ing it convulsively. Kenelm muttered inaudibly—a sort of 
dreary stupor had succeeded to the intense excitement of 
grief. Mrs. Cameron went on : 

“ You could not have married Lily—you know you could 
not. The secret of her birth could not, in honor, have been 
concealed from your parents. They could not have con¬ 
sented to your marriage ; and even if you had persisted, 
without that consent and in spite of that secret, to press 
for it—even had she been yours-” 

“ Might she not be living now ?” cried Kenelm, fiercely. 

“ No—no ; the secret must have come out. The cruel 
world would have discovered it ; it would have reached her 
ears. The shame of it would have killed her. How bitter 
then would have been her short interval of life! As it is, 
she passed away—resigned and happy. But I own that I 
did not, could not, understand her, could not believe her 
feelings for you to be so deep. I did think that, when 
she knew her own heart, she would find that love for her 
guardian was its strongest affection. She assented, appar¬ 
ently without a pang, to become his wife ; and she seemed 
always so fond of him, and what girl would not be ? But I 
was mistaken—deceived. From the day you saw her last, 
she began to fade away ; but then Walter left a few days 
after, and I thought that it was his absence she mourned. 
She never owned to me that it was yours—never till too late 
—too late—just when my sad letter had summoned him back 
only three days before she died. Had I known earlier, while 
yet there was hope of recovery, I must have written to you, 
even though the obstacles to your union with her remained 
the same. Oh, again I implore you, say that if I erred you 
forgive me. She did, kissing me so tenderly. She did forgive 
me. Will not you ? It would have been her wish.” 

“ Her wish ? Do you think I could disobey it ? I know 
not if I have anything to forgive. If I have, how could I 
not forgive one who loved her ? God comfort us both I ” 

He bent down and kissed Mrs. Cameron’s forehead. The 
poor woman threw her arms gratefully, lovingly round him, 
and burst into tears. 

When she had recovered her emotion, she said : 

“And now, it is with so much lighter a heart that I 
can fulfil her commission to you. But, before I place this 
in your hands, can you make me one promise ? Never tel^ 



KEN ELM CHILLINGLY. 


465 


Melville how she loved you. She was so careful he should 
never guess that. And if he knew it was the thought 
of union with him which had killed her, he would never 
smile again.” 

“You would not ask such a promise if you could guess 
how sacred from all the world I hold that secret that you 
confide to me. By that secret the grave is changed into an 
altar. Our bridals now are only awhile deferred.” 

Mrs. Cameron placed a letter in Kenelm’s hand, and, 
murmuring in accents broken by a sob, “ She gave it to me 
the day before her last,” left him, and with quick vacillat¬ 
ing steps hurried back towards the cottage. She now un¬ 
derstood hhn^ at last, too well not to feel that on opening 
that letter he must be alone with the dead. 

It is strange that we need have so little practical house¬ 
hold knowledge of each other to be in love. Never till then 
had Kenelm’s eyes rested upon Lily’s handwriting. And 
he now gazed at the formal address on the envelope with a 
sort of awe. Unknown handwriting coming to him from 
an unknown world—delicate, tremulous handwriting—hand¬ 
writing not of one grown up, yet not of a child who had long 
to live. 

He turned the envelope over and over—not impatiently 
as does the lover whose heart beats at the sound of the ap¬ 
proaching footstep, but lingeringly, timidly. He would not 
break the seal. 

He was now so near the burial-ground. Where should 
the first letter ever received from her—the sole letter he ever 
could receive—be so reverentially, lovingly read, as at her 
grave ? 

He walked on to the burial-ground, sat down by the grave, 
broke the envelope ; a poor little ring, with a poor little 
single turquoise, rolled out and rested at his feet. The let¬ 
ter contained only these words : 

“ The ring comes back to you. I could not live to marry another. I 
never knew how I loved you—till, till I began to pray that you might not 
love me too much. Darling ! darling ! good-bye, darling ! 

“Lily. 

“ Don’t let Lion ever see this, or ever know what it says to you. He is 
so good, and deserves to be so h^ppy. Po you remember the day of th« ring! 
Darling ! darling ! ” 


466 


KENELM CHILLINGLY, 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Somewhat more than another year has rolled away. It ia 
early spring in London. The trees in the parks and squares 
are budding into leaf and blossom. Leopold Travers has 
had a brief but serious conversation with his daughter, and 
is now gone forth on horseback. Handsome and graceful 
still, Leopold Travers when in London is pleased to find 
himself scarcely less the fashion with the young than he 
was w^hen himself in youth. He is now riding along the 
banks of the Serpentine, no one better mounted, better 
dressed, better looking, or talking with greater fluency on 
the topics which interest his companions. 

Cecilia is in the smaller drawing-room; which is exclus¬ 
ively appropriated to her use—alone with Lady Glenalvon. 

Lady Glenalvon. —“I own, my dear, dear Cecilia, that 
I range myself at last on the side of your father. How 
earnestly at one time I had hoped that Kenelm Chillingly 
might woo and win the bride that seemed to me most fitted 
to adorn and to cheer his life, I need not say. But when at 
Exmundham he asked me to befriend his choice of another, 
to reconcile his mother to that choice,—evidently not a 
suitable one,—I gave him up. And though that affair is at 
an end, he seems little likely ever to settle down to practi¬ 
cal duties and domestic habits, an idle wanderer over the 
face of the earth, only heard of in remote places and with 
strange companions. Perhaps he may never return to 
England.” 

Cecilia. — “He is in England now, and in London.” 

Lady Glenalvon.— “You amaze me! Who told you 
so ? ” 


Cecilia.— “ His father, who is with him. Sir Peter called 
yesterday, and spoke to me so kindly.” Cecilia here turned 
aside her face to conceal the tears that had started to her 
eyes. 

Lady Glenalvon. —“ Did Mr. Travers see Sir Peter ? ” 


Cecilia. —“Yes ; and I think it was something that passed; 
between them which made my father speak to me—for thQ 
first time—almost sternly.” 

Lady GLEMAhV0N,-*=^“ lr\ urging Ggrdgn Chillingly> 
mXV " 



KENELM CHI LUNG L Y. 467 

Cecilia. Commanding me to reconsider my rejection 
of it. He has contrived to fascinate my father.” 

Lady Glenalvon. —“ So he has me. Of course you might 
choose among other candidates for your hand one of much 
higher wordly rank, of much larger fortune ; yet, as you 
have already rejected them, Gordon’s merits become still 
more entitled to a fair hearing. He has already leapt into 
a position that mere rank and mere wealth cannot attain. 
Men of all parties speak highly of his parliamentary abilities. 
He is already marked in public opinion as a coming man 
—a future minister of the highest grade. He has youth and 
good looks, his moral character is without a blemish, yet 
his manners are so free from aifected austerity, so frank, so 
genial. Any woman might be pleased with his companion¬ 
ship ; and you; with your intellect, your culture ; you, so 
born for high station ; you of all women might be proud to 
partake the anxieties of his career and the rewards of his 
ambition.” 

Cecilia (clasping her hands tightly together).—I can¬ 
not, I cannot. He may be all you say—I know nothing 
against Mr. Chillingly Gordon—but my whole nature is an¬ 
tagonistic to his ; and even were it not so-” 

She stopped abruptly, a deep blush warming up her fair 
face, and retreating to leave it coldly pale. 

Lady Glenalvon (tenderly kissing her).—“You have 
not, then, even yet conquered the first maiden fancy ; the 
ungrateful one is still remembered ?” 

Cecilia bowed her head on her friend’s breast, and mur¬ 
mured imploringly, “ Don’t speak against him, he Ims been 
so unhappy. How much he must have loved ! ” 

“ But it is not you whom he loved.” 

“ Something here, something at my heart, tells me that 
he will love me yet ; and if not, I am contented be his 
friend.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

While the conversation just related took place between 
Cecilia and Lady Glenalvon, Gordon Chillingly was seated 
alone with Mivers in the comfortable apartment of the cyn¬ 
ical old bachelor. Gordon had breakfasted with his kins¬ 
man,, but that meal was long over the two men having found. 



468 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


much to talk about on matters very interesting to the younger, 
nor without interest to the elder one. 

It is true that Chillingly Gordon had, within the very 
short space of time that had elapsed since his entrance into 
the House of Commons, achieved one of those reputations 
which mark out a man for early admission into the progres¬ 
sive career of office—not a very showy reputation, but a very 
solid one. He had none of the gifts of the genuine orator, 
no enthusiasm, no imagination, no imprudent bursts of fiery 
words from a passionate heart. But he had all the gifts of 
an exceedingly telling speaker—a clear, metallic voice ; well- 
bred, appropriate action, not less dignified for being some¬ 
what too quiet; readiness for extempore replies ; industry 
and method for prepared expositions of principle or fact. 
But his principal merit with the chiefs of the assembly was 
in the strong good sense and worldly tact Avhich made him 
a safe speaker. For this merit he was largely indebted to 
his frequent conferences with Chillingly Mivers. That gen¬ 
tleman, owing to his social qualities or to the influence of 
“ The Londoner ” on public opinion, enjoyed an intimate 
acquaintance with the chiefs of all parties, and was up to his 
ears in the wisdom of the world. Nothing,” he would say, 

hurts a young Parliamentary speaker like violence in opin¬ 
ion, one way or the other. Shun it. Always allow that 
much may be said on both sides. When the chiefs of your 
own side suddenly adopt a violence, you can go with them 
or against them, according as best suits your own book.” 

“So,” said Mivers, reclined on his sofa, and approaching 
the end of his second trabuco (he never allowed himself 
more than two), “ so I think we have pretty well settled the 
tone you must take in your speech to-night. It is a great 
occasion.” 

“ True. It is the first time in which the debate has been 
arranged so that I may speak at ten o’clock or later. That 
in itself is a great leap ; and it is a Cabinet minister whom 
I am to answer—luckily, he is a very dull fellow. Do you 
think I might hazard a joke—at least a witticism ?” 

“ At his expense ? Decidedly not. Though his office 
compels him to introduce this measure, he was by no means 
in its favor when it was discussed in the Cabinet; and though, 
as you say, he is dull, it is precisely that sort of dullness 
which is essential to the formation of every respectable Cabi¬ 
net. Joke at him, indeed ! Learn that gentle dullness nevei 
loves a. joke—at it§ own expense. Yai^ Aan ’ sei^e the oq 


!CKXI^.LM CHIlLmQLY, 


46^ 

caslon which your blame of his measure affords you to secure 
his praise of yourself ; compliment him. Enough of poli¬ 
tics. It never does to think too much over what one has 
already decided to say. Brooding over it, one may become 
too much in earnest, and commit an indiscretion. So Kenelm 
has come back ? ” 

“ Yes. I heard that news last night, at White’s, from 
Travers. Sir Peter had called on Travers.” 

“ Travers still favors your suit to the heiress ? ” 

“ More, I think, than, ever. Success in Parliament has 
great effect on a man who has success in fashion and respects 
the opinion of clubs. But last night he was unusually cor¬ 
dial. Between you and me, I think he is a little afraid that 
Kenelm may yet be my rival. I gathered that from a hint 
he let fall of the unwelcome nature of Sir Peter’s talk to 
him.” 

“ Why has Travers conceived a dislike to poor Kenelm ? 
He seemed partial enough to him once.” 

“ Ay, but not as a son-in-law, even before I had a chance 
of becoming so. And when, after Kenelm appeared at Ex- 
mundham while Travers was staying there, Travers learned, 
I suppose from Lady Chillingly, that Kenelm had fallen in 
love with and wanted to marry some other girl, who it seems 
rejected him, and still more when he heard that Kenelm had 
been subsequently travelling on the Continent in company 
with a low-lived fellow, the drunken, riotous son of a farrier, 
you may well conceive how so polished and sensible a man as 
Leopold Travers would dislike the idea of giving his daughter 
to one so little likely to make an agreeable son-in-law. Bah ! 
1 have no fear of Kenelm. By the way, did Sir Peter say if 
Kenelm had quite recovered his health ? He was at death’s 
door some eighteen months ago, when Sir Peter and Lady 
Chillingly were summoned to town by the doctors.” 

“ My dear Gordon, I fear there is no chance of your suc¬ 
cession to Exmundham. Sir Peter says that his wandering 
Hercules is as stalwart as ever, and more equable in tempera¬ 
ment, more taciturn and grave—in short, less odd. But when 
you say you have no fear of Kenelm’s rivalry, do you mean 
only as Cecilia Travers ? ” 

“ Neither as to that nor as to anything in life ; and as to 
the succession to Exmundham, it is his to leave as he pleases, 
and I have cause to think he would never leave it to me. 
More likely to Parson John or the parson’s son—or why not 
to yourself ? I often think that for the prizes immediately 


470 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


set before my ambition I am better oif without land : land is 
a great obfuscator.” 

“ Humph, there is some truth in that. Yet the fear of 
land and obfuscation does not seem to operate against your 
suit to Cecilia Travers ? ” 

“ Her father is likely enough to live till I maybe con 
tented to ‘ rest and be thankful ’ in the upper house ; and I 
should not like to be a landless peer.” 

“You are right there ; but I should tell you that, now 
Kenelm has come back, Sir Peter has set his heart on his 
son’s being your rival.” 

“ For Cecilia?” 

“ Perhaps ; but certainly for Parliamentary reputation. 
The senior member for the county means to retire, and Sir 
Peter has been urged to allow his son to he brought forward 
—from what I hear, with the certainty of success.” 

“What! in spite of that wonderful speech of his on com¬ 
ing of age ? ” 

“ Pooh ! that is now understood to have been but a bad 
joke on the new ideas and their organs, including ‘ The 
Londoner.’ But if Kenelm does come into the House, it will 
not be on your side of the question ; and unless I greatly 
overrate his abilities—which very likely I do—he will not be 
a rival to despise. Except, indeed, that he may have one 
fault which in the present day would be enough to unfit him 
for public life.” 

“ And what is that fault ?” 

“ Treason to the blood of the Chillinglys. This is the age, 
in England, when one cannot be too much of a Chillingly. I 
fear that if Kenelm does become bewildered by a politica? 
abstraction—call it no matter what, say, ‘ love of his coun¬ 
try,’ or some such old-fashioned crotchet—I fear—I greatly 
fear—that he may be—in earnest.” 


CHAPTER THE LAST. 

It was a field night in the House of Commons—an ad¬ 
journed debate, opened by George Belvoir, who had been, 
the last two years, very slowly creeping on in the favor, or 
rather the indulgence, of the House, and more than justify¬ 
ing Kenelm’s prediction of his career. Heir to a noble 



JfCEN^ELM CHILLINGLY. 


47 * 


name and vast estates, extremely hard-working, very well in¬ 
formed, it was impossible that he should not creep on. That 
night he spoke sensibly enough, assisting his memory by 
frequent references to his notes ; listened to courteously, and 
greeted with a faint “ Hear ! hear ! ” of relief when he had 
done. 

Then the House gradually thinned till nine o’clock, at 
which hour it became very rapidly crowded. A Cabinet min¬ 
ister had solemnly risen, deposited on the table before him a 
formidable array of printed papers, including a corpulent 
blue book. Leaning his arm on the red box, he commenced 
with this awe-compelling sentence : 

“Sir,—I join issue with the right honorable gentleman 
opposite. He says this is not raised as a party question. I 
deny it. Her Majesty’s Government are put upon their trial.” 

Here there were cheers, so loud, and so rarely greeting a 
speech from that Cabinet minister, that he was put out, and 
had much to “ hum ” and to “ ha,” before he could recover 
the thread of his speech. Then he went on, with unbroken 
but lethargic fluency; read long extracts from the public 
papers, inflicted a whole page from the blue book, wound up 
with a peroration of respectable platitudes, glanced at the 
clock, saw that he had completed the hour which a Cabinet 
minister who does not profess to be oratorical is expected to 
speak, but not to exceed, and sat down. 

Up rose a crowd of eager faces, from which the Speaker, 
as previously arranged with the party whips, selected one— 
a young face, hardy, intelligent, emotionless. 

I need not say that it was the face of Chillingly Gordon. 

His position that night was one that required dexterous 
management and delicate tact. He habitually supported the 
Government ; his speeches had been hitherto in their favor. 
On this occasion he differed from the Government. The 
difference was known to the chiefs of the opposition, and 
hence the arrangement of the whips, that he should speak 
for the first time after ten o’clock, and for the first time in 
reply to a Cabinet minister. It is a position in which a 
young party man makes or mars his future. Chillingly 
Gordon spoke from the third row behind the Government ; 
he had been duly cautioned by Mivers not to affect a con¬ 
ceited independence, or an adhesion to “ violence ” in ultra- 
liberal opinions, by seating himself below the gangway. 
Speaking thus amid the rank and file of the Ministerial sup- - 
porters, any opinion at variance with the mouth-pieces of th© 


cmillNGlV, 


Treasury betich would be sure to produce a more efiectivd 
sensation than if delivered from the ranks of the mutinous 
Bashi Bazouks divided by the gangway from better dis¬ 
ciplined forces. His first brief sentences enthralled the 
House^ conciliated the Ministerial side, kept the opposition 
side in suspense. The whole speech was, indeed, felicit¬ 
ously adroit, and especially in this, that while in opposition 
to the Government as a whole, it expressed the opinions oi 
a powerful section of the Cabinet, which though at present 
a minority, yet, being the most enamored of a New Idea, the 
progress of the age would probably render a safe investment 
for the confidence which honest Gordon reposed in its 
chance of beating its colleagues. 

It was not, however, till Gordon had concluded, that the 
cheers of his audience—impulsive and hearty as are the 
cheers of that assembly when the evidence of intellect is un¬ 
mistakable—made manifest to the Gallery and the reporters 
the full effect of the speech he had delivered. The chief of 
the opposition whispered to his next neighbor, “ I wish we 
could get that man.” The Cabinet minister whom Gordon 
had answered—more pleased with a personal compliment to 
himself than displeased with an attack on the measure his 
office had compelled him to advocate—whispered to his chief, 
“ That is a man we must not lose.” 

Two gentlemen in the Speaker’s gallery, who had sat 
there from the opening of the debate, now quitted their 
places. Coming into the lobby, they found themselves com¬ 
mingled with a crowd of members who had also quitted their 
seats, after Gordon’s speech, in order to discuss its merits, 
as they gathered round the refreshment-table for oranges or 
soda-water. Among them was George Belvoir, who on 
sight of the younger of the two gentlemen issuing from the 
Speaker’s gallery, accosted him with friendly greeting : 

“ Ha ! Chillingly, how are you ? Did not know you were 
in town. Been here all the evening? Yes ; very good de¬ 
bate. How did you like Gordon’s speech?” 

“ I liked yours much better.” 

“ Mine ! ” cried George, very much flattered and very 
much surprised. ‘ Oh ! mine was a mere humdrum affair, 
at plain statement of the reasons for the vote I should give. 
And Gordon’s was anything but that. You did not like his 
opinions ? ” 

“ I don’t know what his opinions are. But I did not like 
his ideas.” 


KENBLM CHILLINGLY, 


473 


I don’t quite understand you. What ideas ? 

“ The new ones ; by which it is shown how rapidly a 
great State can be made small.” 

Here Mr. Belvoir was taken aside by a brother member, 
on an important matter to be brought before the committee 
on salmon-fisheries, on which they both served ; and Ken- 
elm, with his companion, Sir Peter, threaded his way through 
the crowded lobby, and disappeared. Emerging into the 
broad space, with its lofty clock-tower. Sir Peter halted, and, 
pointing towards the old Abbey, half in shadow, half in 
light, under the tranquil moonbeams, said : 

“ It tells much for the duration of a people, when it ac¬ 
cords with the instinct of immortality in a man ; when an 
honored tomb is deemed recompense for the toils and dan¬ 
gers of a noble life. How much of the history of England 
Nelson summed up in the simple words, ‘ Victory or West¬ 
minster Abbey! ’ ” 

“Admirably expressed, my dear father,” said Kenelm, 
briefly. 

“ I agree with your remark, which I overheard, on Gor¬ 
don’s speech,” resumed Sir Peter. “ It was wonderfully 
clever ; yet I should have been very sorry to hear you speak 
it. It is not by such sentiments that Nelsons become great. 
If such sentiments should ever become national, the cry will 
not be ‘ Victory or Westminster Abbey ! ’ but ‘Defeat and 
the Three per Cents ! ’ ” 

Pleased with his own unwonted animation, and with the 
sympathizing half-smile on his son’s taciturn lips. Sir Peter 
then proceeded more immediately to the subjects which 
pressed upon his heart. Gordon’s success in Parliament, 
Gordon’s suit to Cecilia Travers, favored, as Sir Peter had 
learned, by her father, rejected as yet by herself, were some¬ 
how inseparably mixed up in Sir Peter’s mind and his words, 
as he sought to kindle his son’s emulation. He dwelt on 
the obligations which a country imposed on its citizens, es¬ 
pecially on the young and vigorous generation to which the 
destinies of those to follow were intrusted ; and with these 
stern obligations he combined all the cheering and tender 
associations which an English public man connects with an 
English home : the wife with a smile to soothe the cares, and a 
mind to share the aspirations, of a life that must go through 
labor to achieve renown ; thus, in all he said, binding together, 
as if they could not be disparted. Ambition and Cecilia. 

His son did not interrupt him by a word : Sir Peter in 


474 


ttENELM CHILLINGLY. 


his eagerness not noticing that Kenelm had drawn him aside 
from the direct thoroughfare, and had now made halt in the 
middle of Westminster Bridge, bending over the massive 
parapet and gazing abstractedly upon the waves of the star¬ 
lit river. On the right the stately length of the people’s 
legislative palace, so new in its date, so elaborately in each 
detail ancient in its form, stretching on towards the lowly 
and jagged roofs of penury and crime. Well might these 
be so near to the halls of a people’s legislative palace ;— 
near to the heart of every legislator for a people must be 
the mighty problem how to increase a people’s splendor 
and its virtue, and how to diminish its penury and its crime. 

“ How strange it is,” said Kenelm, still bending over the 
parapet, “ that throughout all my desultory wanderings 1 
have ever been attracted towards the sight and the sound 
of running waters, even those of t he humblest rill! Of what 
thoughts, of what dreams, of what memories, coloring the 
history of my past, the waves of the humblest rill could 
speak, were the waves themselves not such supreme phil¬ 
osophers—roused indeed on their surface, vexed by a check 
to their own course, but so indifferent to all that makej 
gloom or death to'the mortals who think and dream and fee’ 
beside their banks.” 

“ Bless me,” said Sir Peter to himself, “ the boy has got 
back to his old vein of humors and melancholies. He has 
not heard a word I have been saying. Travers is right. 
He will never do anything in life. Why did I christen him 
kenelm? he might as well have been christened Peter.” 
Still, loath to own that his eloquence had been expended in 
vain, and that the wish of his heart was doomed to expire 
disappointed. Sir Peter said aloud, “You have not listened 
to what I said ; Kenelm, you grieve me.” 

“ Grieve you ! you ! do not say that, father, dear father. 
Listen to you ! Every word you have said has sunk into 
the deepest deep of my heart. Pardon my foolish purpose¬ 
less snatch of talk to myself : it is but my way, only my 
way, dear father! ” 

“ Boy, boy,” cried Sir Peter, with tears in his voice, “ if 
you could get out of those odd ways of yours I should be so 
thankful. But if you cannot, nothing yon can do shall 
grieve me. Only, let me say this : running waters have had 
a great charm for you. With a humble rill you associate 
thoughts, dreams, memories in your past. But tiow you 
halt by the stream of the mighty river—before you the sen* 


KENELM CHILLINGLY. 


475 


ate of an empire wider than Alexander’s, behind you the 
market of a commerce to which that of Tyre was a pitiful 
trade. Look farther down, those squalid hovels, how much 
■there to redeem or to remedy ; and out of sight, but not 
very distant, the nation’s Walhalla : ‘ Victory or Westminster 
Abbey!’ The humble rill has witnessed your past. Has 
the mighty river no effect on your future ? The rill keeps 
no record of your past, sliall the river keep no record of 
your future ? Ah, boy, boy, I see you are dreaming still— 
no use talking. Let us go home.” 

“ I was not dreaming ; I was telling myself that the time 
had come to replace the old Kenelm with the new ideas, by a 
new Kenelm wdth the Ideas of Old. Ah ! perhaps we must 
•—at whatever cost to ourselves,—we must go through the 
romance of life before we clearly detect what is grand in its 
realities. I can no longer lament that I stand estranged 
from the objects and pursuits of my race. I have learned 
how much I have with them in common. I have known 
love ; I have known sorrow.” 

Kenelm paused a moment, only a moment, then lifted 
the head which, during that pause, had drooped, and stood 
erect at the full height of his stature ; startling his father 
by the change that had passed over his face ; lip—eye—his 
wdiole aspect eloquent wdth a resolute enthusiasm, too grave 
to be the flash of a passing moment. 

“Ay, ay,” he said, “Victory or Westminster Abbey'. 
The world is a battle-field in which the v/orst wounded are 
the deserters, stricken a3 they seek to fly, and hushing the 
groans that would betray the secret of their inglorious hid¬ 
ing-place. The pains of wounds received in the thick of the 
fight is scarcely felt in the joy of service to some honored 
cause, and is amply atoned by the reverence for noble scars. 
My choice is made. Not that of deserter, that of soldier in 
the ranks.” 

“ It will not be long before you rise from the ranks, my 
boy, if you hold fast to the Idea of Old, symbolized in the 
English battle-cry : ‘ Victory or Westminster Abbey.’ ” 

So saying. Sir Peter took his son’s arm, leaning on it 
proudly : and so, into the crowded thoroughfares, from the 
halting-place on the modern bridge that spans the legendary 
river, passes the Man of the Young Generation to fates be¬ 
yond the verge of the horizon to which the eyes of my gene< 
ration must h'mit their wistful gaze. 


THE END. 


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Boys of the Bible. 

Boy Slaves. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Boy Tar. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Bruin. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Bush Boys. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker. 


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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS/ 


IRugt)^ l65it(on—Continued. 


Cliff Climbers. By Capt. Mayne Keid. 

Daniel Boone, Life of. 

Children’s Stories. 

Deep Down. By Ballantyne. 

Desert Home. By Capt. Mayne Beid. 

Dick Cheveley. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Dick Bodney. By J. Grant. 

Eastern Fairy Legends, Current in Southern India. 
Edgeworth’s Parents’ Assistant. 

Edgeworth’s Moral Tales. 

Edgeworth’s Popular Tales. 

Edgeworth’s Classic Tales. 

Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon. By Sir S. Baker. 
Eric Dane. By M. White, Jr. 

Erling the Bold. By B. M. Ballantyne. 

Esther. By Bosa N. Carey. 

Famous Boys. 

Famous Men. 

Fire Brigade, The. By B. M. Ballantyne. 

Flag of Distress. By Capt. Mayne Beid. 

Flat Iron for a Farthing, A. By Mrs. Ewing 
Forest Exiles. By Capt. Mayne Beid. 

Fort Pillow to the End. By William M. Thayer. 

Fort Sumter to Boanoke Island. By Wm. M. Thayer. 
Frank Wildman’s Adventures on Land and Water. By 
Frederick Gerstaecker. 

Gascoyne. By B. M. Ballantyne. 

German Fairy Tales. Translated by Chas. A. Dana. 
Gilbert the Trapper. By Capt. C. M. Ashley. 

Giraffe Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Beid. 

Golden Magnet, The. By G. M. Fenn. 

Grade Goodwin. A Story for Girls. 

Grandfather’s Chair. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Grey Hawk. By James Macaulay. 

Harlie’s Letters. By Jacob Abbott. 

HaufTs Fairy Tales. 


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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


IRuQbis BDltion—ContinueD, 


In Southern Seas. By Frank H. Converse. 

In the Wilds of New Mexico. By G. M. Fenn. 
Jackanapes and Other Tales. By Mrs. Ewing. 

Jack Wheeler. By Capt. David Southwick. 

Land of Mystery. By B. H. Jayne. 

Luke Bennet’s Hide Out. By Capt. C. B. Ashley. 
Magician’s Show-box, The, and Other Stories. 

Mark Seaworth. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Merle’s Crusade. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Midshipman, The. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Mountain Cave, The. By Geo. H. Coomer. 

Murfreesboro to Fort Pillow. By William M. Thayer. 
Mystery of a Diamond, The. By Frank H. Converse. 
Nature’s Young Nobleman. By Brooks McCormick. 
Number 91. By Arthur Lee Putnam. 

Ocean Waifs. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Odd People. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Old Merry’s Travels on the Continent. 

On the Trail of Geronimo. By R. H. Jayne. 

Oriental Fairy Tales. 

Our Young Soldiers. By Lieut. AY. R. Hamilton. 

Paul Blake. Adventures of a Boy in the Island of Cor¬ 
sica, etc. 

Perils of the Jungle. By Lieut. R. H. Jayne. 

Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Pirate Island. By Harry Collingwood. 

Plant Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Popular Natural History. 

Ran Away to Sea. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballantyne. 

Rifle and Hound in Ceylon, The. By Sir Samuel Baker. 
Roanoke Island to Murfreesboro. By Wm. M. Thayer. 
Robin Hood and His Merry Forresters. 

Round the World. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Salt Water. By W. H. G. Kingston. 

Sandford and Merton. 


JOHN W. LOVELL C0M:PANY, NEW YORK, 






JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


IRugL^ iSOition—Cont(nuet>. 


School Life ; or, Three Years at Wolverton. 

Smuggler’s Cave, The. By Annie Ashmore. 

Spanish Fairy Tales. 

Stories about Animals. By Capt. Mayne Keid. 

Stories from American History. 

Through the Looking Glass. By Lewis Carroll 
Tiger Prince, The. By William Dalton. 

Tom Tracy. By Arthur Lee Putnam. 

Twice Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Voyage to the Gold Coast, A. By Frank H. Converse. 
War Tiger, The. By William Dalton. 

White Elephant, The. By William Dalton. 

White Mustang, The. By E. H. Jayne. 

Wild Sports in the Far West. By Frederick Gerstaecker. 
Wolf Boy in China, The. By William Dalton. 

Wonders of the Great Deep. By P. H. Gosse. 

Young Acrobat. By Horatio Alger. 

Young Adventurer. 

Young Foresters, The, and Other Tales. 

Young Folks’ Book of Birds. 

Young Folks’ Book of Book. 

Young Folks’ History of France. By C. M. Yonge. 

Young Folks’ History of Germany. By C. M. Yonge. 
Young Folks’ History of Greece. 

Young Folks’ History of Eome. 

Young Voyagers. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Young Yagers. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 

Young Folks’ Historical Tales. By William and Robert 
ChamV^ers. 

Young Folks’ Tales of Adventures. By William and Rob¬ 
ert Chambers. 

Young Folks’ Popular Tales. By William and Robert 
Chambers. 

Young Folks’ Scottish Tales. By William and Robert 
Chambers. 

Young Folks’ Natural History. 


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